ITALY 


AND 


THE      ITALIANS 


BY   THE  SAME  AUTHOR. 


FREDERIC    UVEDALE:    A  Romance. 

Crown  8vo,  6s. 

STUDIES    IN    THE   LIVES    OF    THE 
SAINTS.     Crown  8vo,  3s.  6d.  net. 


ITALY 


AND 


THE     ITALIANS 


BY 


EDWARD     HUTTON 


THE   LIVES   OF   THE   SAINTS 


WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS 


SECOND   EDITION 


NEW     YORK 
E.    P.    DUTTON    &    COMPANY 

1903 


All  Rights  reseri'ed 


Printed  by 
William  Blackwood  &  Sons,  Edinburgh,  Scotland. 


TO   MY  FRIEND, 

D.   S.  MELD  RUM,  Esq, 


i\  m  &  ^ 


Preface. 

To-night,  under  a  nearly  full  moon,  the  peasants 
are  practising  their  dances  and  songs  for  to-morrow's 
feast — the  feast  of  St  Sebastian.  I  am  brought  from 
the  fireside  about  ten  o'clock  out  under  the  stars, 
to  listen  to  them.  The  sky  is  very  clear,  and  the 
moon  rides  easily,  like  a  pale  lady  on  horseback, 
among  the  stars,  that  seem  incomparably  far  away. 
The  plaintive,  poignant  sweetness  of  the  mandolins 
floating  away  from  me  out  across  the  silver  levels 
of  water,  throbs  almost  bitterly  it  seems  to  me,  as 
I  lean  over  the  verandah  listening.  Just  at  the 
bottom  of  my  garden,  but  on  higher  ground, — on  a 
kind  of  a  promontory,  in  fact,  that  juts  out  into 
the  sea, — is  the  cemetery,  full  of  tall  calm  cypresses 
that  look  jet  black  against  the  paleness  of  the  sky. 
Far  away,  somewhere  deep  down  in  the  valley,  a 
bugle  calls,  and  as  the  notes  gallop  towards  me, 
a  curious  emotion  sweeps  through  my  blood,  and  I 
feel  the  splendours  of  the  pageants  and  of  all  the 
royalty  of  the  emperors  and  kings  that  are  no  more. 
The    bugle   ceases,   and    a   quiet  wind  creeps  round 


viii  PREFACE 

the  house  through  the  orange-trees,  and  once  more 
the  throb  of  the  mandolins  takes  full  possession  of 
me,  and  I  wait  to  hear  what  the  singers  will  sing. 

For  some  time  they  do  nothing  but  dance.  Such 
funny  dances !  Up  and  down  the  road  they  go  for 
fifty  yards,  the  mandolins  bitterly  upbraiding.  And 
then  over  all,  quite  suddenly,  the  wail  of  a  violin. 
Unseen  by  me  the  musician  has  joined  the  group, 
and  now  the  measure  becomes  less  uncouth,  less 
barbaric,  perhaps  less  modern.  As  the  dancers  be- 
come warmer  they  throw  aside  their  cloaks  and  the 
figures  grow  more  intricate,  the  throbbing  mandolins 
more  insistent,  the  breathing  deeper  and  less  regular ; 
and  at  last,  when  a  mandolin  breaks  as  it  were  from 
control  and  shrieks  terribly,  somewhere  high  up  on 
the  "  E  "  string,  the  dancers  break  from  one  another 
and  throw  themselves  down  on  the  roadside. 

Then  the  singing  begins  while  the  dancers  rest. 
Very  glad  singing  it  is,  with  nothing  of  sadness  in 
it,  but  of  that  sweet  sentimental  kind  that  is  one 
of  the  common  denominators  of  all  the  world. 
"  Santa  Lucia "  they  sing  —  so  old,  but  one  never 
wearies  of  it, — "  Addio  !  Addio  !  "  and  some  more 
songs  which  delight  the  visitors  at  Venice  and 
Naples  —  songs  which  we  all,  once  at  any  rate  in 
our  life,  believed  could  never  be  bettered. 

The  dancing  begins  again,  receding  now  down  the 
hill  slowly,  until  the  night  comes  up  out  of  the 
valley  and  swallows  it.  I  walk  up  and  down  the 
verandah,  light  a  cigarette  and  determine  to  enjoy 


PREFACE  ix 

the  beauty  of  the  night  for  a  few  minutes.  The 
sky  is  a  deeper  blue  now,  and  the  stars  are  not  so 
pale,  not  so  utterly  distant.  Orion  is  lying  on  his 
side,  and  Mars — it  must  be  Mars,  he  looks  so  red — 
is  stealing  up  out  of  the  east.  The  old  town  lies 
at  my  feet,  sleeping  as  it  has  done  these  last  seven 
hundred  years,  between  the  mountains  and  the  sea. 
The  old  towers,  their  tiles  glistening  in  the  moon- 
light, rise  silently  towards  heaven.  A  clock  strikes 
suddenly  without  any  preparation,  slowly  and  medi- 
tatively ;  another,  more  distant,  answers  it  more 
hurriedly ;  in  my  study  my  own  little  carriage-clock 
pipes  too,  raising  an  utterly  childish,  inadequate  voice 
that  cannot  possibly  reach  much  farther  than  the 
verandah.  Still  the  sky  is  clear,  and  the  wind  from 
the  hills  carries  the  clock  notes  towards  Greece.  How 
far  will  they  go  that  have  just  struck  midnight  here  ? 

I  am  just  thinking  of  going  in — have  indeed  thrown 
away  my  cigarette — when  something  stops  me.  It 
sounds  like  a  very  tiny  note  from  high  up  on  the  "  E  " 
string  of  a  mandolin.  But  they  have  all  gone  home, 
these  singers  and  dancers, — home  to  bed  to  dream  of 
to-morrow  and  the  festa. 

No ;  what  was  that  ?  I  lean  over  the  verandah 
and  there  below  me  in  the  road  are  two  tiny  figures, 
a  boy  and  a  girl.  The  boy  cannot  be  more  than 
ten,  and  the  girl,  though  the  taller  of  the  two,  is 
certainly  less  than  twelve  years  old.  A  mandolin 
is  slung  over  the  boy's  shoulders,  and  he  reaches 
blunderingly  I  think  for  it,   till  his  sister   swings  it 


x  PREFACE 

round  for  him  ;  and  they  both,  at  a  whispered  word 
from  the  girl,  drop  me  curtseys. 

"  Let  me  sing  to  you,  signore,"  says  the  little  girl ; 
"  we  too  love  San  Sebastiano." 

The  boy  tunes  his  mandolin,  and  then,  with  just 
a  simple  note  or  two,  startlingly  abrupt,  they  begin. 
It  is  a  curious  song — where  have  I  heard  the  words 
before  ? — set  to  a  curious  music.  The  notes  come 
as  it  were  in  little  heaps,  with  no  regular  time  that 
I  can  grasp,  but  with  a  kind  of  spiritual  sweetness 
and  clearness,  exactly  fitting  the  time  and  the  semi- 
darkness.  Two  such  curious  little  figures  they  look, 
singing  in  piping  treble  there  in  the  road  under  my 
window.     This  is  what  they  sing : — 

"  Fior  di  mortelle 
Queste  manine  tue  son  tanto  belle. 

Zompa  llari-llira. 

Fior  di  limone 
Ti  voglio  far  morire  di  passione  ! 

Zompa  llari-llira. 

Fiore  di  nardo 
Passa  Rosina  mia  :  mi  da  uno  sguardo. 
Zompa  llari-llira ! 
Fiore  di  Rosa  ! 
Piangi  mio  ben,  perche  ?  vuoi  qualche  cosa? 
Zompa  llari-llira. 

Fiore  di  spica 
Collera,  o  bella,  in  me  non  entra  mica 

Zompa  llari-llira. 

Fiore  di  menta, 
Questa  parola  mia  ben  ti  rammenta. 

Zompa  llari-llira." 


PREFACE  xi 

They  sing  it  right  through  to  the  end,  and  then  the 
boy's  fingers  wander  over  the  mandolin  strings  still 
playing  the  air.  Where  can  they  have  learnt  that 
song  ? 

I  ask  them.  "Oh,"  says  the  girl,  "yes,  signore. 
Giovanni-Battista  heard  it  read  out  of  a  paper,  and 
made  a  tune  for  it :  it  is  his  favourite  song." 

"  Sing  some  more,  then,  if  you  would  please  me," 
I  say,  giving  them  some  money.  They  whisper  to- 
gether for  a  time ;  the  mandolin  is  silent  now ;  they 
look  just  like  two  little  wild-flowers  dropped  on  the 
road.     I  can  only  see  their  upturned  faces. 

Something  is  wrong,  the  girl  is  down  on  her  hands 
and  knees  looking  for  something. 

"  He  has  dropped  the  plettro,  signore,"  she  says, 
"  and  one  cannot  play  a  mandolin  with  one's  fingers." 

"Wait  a  moment,"  I  say,  "I  will  bring  a  light." 
I  go  into  the  house  and  fetch  a  big  hall  lamp,  and 
the  girl  and  I  search  for  the  plettro,  in  vain. 

"  Come  and  help  us,  Giovannino,"  I  say.  He  does 
not  move,  but  looks  on  with  wide  eyes, — eyes  that 
seem  to  look  me  through  and  through,  gazing  out 
of  a  white,  spiritual  face. 

"  Are  you  blind,  Giovannino  ?  "  I  say  ;  "  come  and 
help  us  look  for  your  plettro." 

"Yes,  signore,  he  is  blind,"  says  the  little  girl; 
"  but,"  she  adds  quickly,  putting  her  arm  round  her 
brother — "but  he  is  a  great  musician,  aren't  you, 
Giovanni  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  says  the  boy  with  a  sigh,  "  I  am   a  great 


xii  PREFACE 

musician."  He  says  it  as  though  it  were  not  so 
great  a  thing  after  all — as  though  it  certainly  were 
not  worth  that  blindness. 

The  moonbeams  play  upon  his  face,  he  seems  not 
to  feel  the  light  at  all ;  a  more  spiritual,  almost  un- 
canny face,  full  of  a  kind  of  twilight  I  don't  think 
I  have  ever  seen.  He  stands  quite  still,  waiting. 
But  it  cannot  be  found,  this  plettro,  that  has  given 
us  so  much  trouble.  I  ask  them  will  they  not  come 
into  the  house  and  have  some  supper. 

"  No,  thank  you,  signore,"  says  the  girl,  "  we 
will  go  home ;  it  is  late,  and  San  Sebastiano  is 
here." 

They  go  off  down  the  road,  she  leading  the  boy 
who  is  blind  and  who  has  lost  his  plettro,  but  who 
is  so  great  a  musician  ;  and  I,  as  I  turn  and  watch 
them  in  the  moonlight,  there  where  they  go  down 
into  the  valley  where  all  is  so  quiet  and  so  dark, 
find  my  eyes  wet  with  tears.  Surely  this  is  Italy 
that  I  have  seen  on  the  eve  of  San  Sebastiano,  Italy 
who  is  blind  and  who  has  lost  her  plettro. 


Contents. 


IMPRESSIONS    OF    ITALY   OF  TO-DAY. 

PAGE 

I.    ON    THE    WAY      ...  3 

II.    UNITED    ITALY    .                  .                  .  .                  ,12 

III.    IL    PAPA-RE            .                   •                  .  .                   .25 

IV.    THE   HOUSE    OF    SAVOY    .                  .  .                  .41 

V.    THE    SOCIALISTS                   .                  .  .                  .54 

VI.    LITERATURE 1.                    .                   ,  .                  =65 

II. GABR1ELE    D'ANNUNZIO     .  -                   .78 


THE   CITIES    OF    ITALY. 

I.    AT    GENOA 
II.    AT    PISA 
III.    AT    SIENA 
IV.    AT    ORVIETO 
V.    ROME       . 
VI.    CHRISTMAS    EVE    IN    ROME 
VII.    THE    RELIGIOUS    ORDERS    IN    ROME 
VIII.    PLAIN-SONG    ON    THE    AVENTINE    HILL 
IX.    AT    NAPLES 
X.    AT   PERUGIA 


I03 
III 
121 

131 

J39 

145 
156 
180 
189 
202 


XIV 


CONTENTS 


XI. 

AT   ASSISI 

210 

XII. 

FLORENCE 1.      . 

223 

XIII. 

FLORENCE — II.  . 

235 

XIV. 

LUCA    DELLA    ROBBIA 

243 

XV. 

FRA    LIPPO    LIPPI 

254 

XVI. 

AT    BOLOGNA 

1           264 

XVII. 

A    NOTE    ON    RAVENNA    . 

27O 

XVIII. 

AT    VENICE 

274 

XIX. 

AT    PADUA              .                  , 

290 

XX. 

AT    VERONA 

300 

XXI. 

AT    MANTUA 

306 

XXII. 

AT    MILAN 
CONCLUSION 

APPE 

NDIX. 

'           311 

32° 

AN    ITINERARY    . 

A    NOTE    ON    EDUCATION    IN    ITALY 
A    NOTE    ON    THE    POLITICAL    SYSTEM 
A   NOTE    ON    THE   ARMY   AND    NAVY 


327 

33* 

334 

338 


INDEX     . 


341 


Illustrations. 


IAGE 

the  singing  boys      .....    Froniispiece 

By  Luca  della  Robbia. 

THE   CREATION   OF   MAN  ....  8o 

By  Michaelangelo. 

st  peter's,  rome      .  .  .  .  .  .138 

the  forum     .  .  .  .  .  .  .       150 

the    altar    of    santa    maria    delle   grazie   in   san 

lorenzo,  perugia      .  208 

santa  maria  del  fiore  and  giotto's  tower,  florence     224 

the  birth  of  venus  .....      228 

By  Sandro  Botticelli. 
SANTA   MARIA   NOVELLA,    FLORENCE  .  .  *         238 

VIEW    OF   VENICE  ....  .         274 


Impressions    of  Italy    of  To-Day 


I. 


ON   THE   WAY, 


"  A  MONGST  those  many  advantages  which  conduce  to 
enrich  the  mind  with  knowledge,  to  rectify  the  judg- 
ment and  improve  outward  manners,  foreign  travel  is  none 
of  the  least.  But  to  be  a  sedentary  traveller  only,  penned 
up  between  walls,  and  to  stand  poring  all  day  upon  a  map, 
upon  imaginary  circles  and  scales,  is  like  him  who  thought 
to  come  to  be  a  good  fencer  by  looking  on  Agrippa's  book 
postures  only.  But,  indeed,  this  is  the  prime  use  of  travel, 
which  therefore  may  be  not  imperfectly  called  a  moving 
Academy  of  the  true  Peripatetic  school.  This  made  Ulysses 
to  be  cried  up  so  much  amongst  the  Greeks  for  their 
greatest  wise  man,  because  he  had  travelled  through  many 
strange  countries  and  observed  the  manners  of  divers 
nations,  having  seen,  as  it  was  said  and  sung  of  him,  more 
cities  than  there  were  houses  in  Athens,  which  was  much  in 
that  age  of  the  world ;  and  the  greatest  of  their  Emperors 
did  use  to  glory  in  nothing  so  often  as  that  he  had  surveyed 
more  land  with  his  eye  than  other  kings  could  comprehend 
with  their  thoughts.  Amongst  other  people  of  the  earth, 
Islanders  seem  to  stand  in  most  need  of  foreign  travel,  for 
they,  being  cut  off  as  it  were  from  the  rest  of  the  citizens  of 
the  world,  have  not  those  obvious  accesses  and  contiguity 


4  ITALY   OF   TO-DAY 

of  situation  and  other  advantages  of  society  to  mingle  with 
those  more  refined  nations  whom  learning  and  knowledge 
did  first  urbanize  and  polish." 

So  in  the  seventeenth  century  wrote  James  Howell 
in  the  beginning  of  his  '  Instructions  for  Foreign 
Travel '  for  the  use  of  us  Islanders,  almost  as  though 
he  had  been  retained  for  a  seventeenth -century  Mr 
Cook  or  Mr  Gaze.  Yet  pardon  me,  reader,  if,  with 
all  the  will  in  the  world,  I  fail  to  maintain  so  reason- 
able an  attitude.  In  truth  it  was  in  some  such  mood 
that  I  set  out  one  day  of  spring  on  foot  for  Italy ;  but 
I  had  scarcely  gone  a  score  of  miles  through  France 
before  my  old  world,  home-sick  from  the  first,  had 
turned  back  homewards,  and  I,  not  altogether  with- 
out a  kind  of  joy,  was  talking  with  some  peasants 
over  a  bottle  of  wine  in  an  inn,  and  found  that  I,  too, 
was  one  of  the  "  Peripatetic  school "  in  earnest,  and 
had  already  begun  to  whisper  to-morrow  to  myself  as 
a  thing  of  great  comfort,  and  was,  indeed,  a  pilgrim 
through  my  world  of  beckoning  roads  as  I  had  ever 
been,  though  maybe  unwillingly,  from  this  world  to 
the  next.  So  I  made  pilgrimage  to  the  Land  of 
Heart's  Desire,  and  longed  with  a  great  longing  for 
the  end  of  the  journey,  knowing  all  the  time  that 
it  was  the  journey  itself  that  was  the  end,  the  great 
reward.  And  among  innumerable  hostelries,  inns, 
taverns,  wine  shops,  monasteries,  chapels,  and  caverns, 
I  discovered  almost  without  knowing  it  the  Island  of 
Once,  for  which,  perhaps,  I  had  set  out.  Nor, 
believe  me,  was   I  too  lonely  on  the  way.     I  went 


ON    THE   WAY  5 

by  the  old  highways.  The  roads  down  which  I 
travelled  were  worn  white  by  the  feet  of  saints  and 
sinners,  kings  and  peasants,  and  the  pilgrims  to 
the  Eternal  City  for  over  a  thousand  years.  Hot 
and  tired,  I,  too,  had  climbed  that  last  intolerable 
hill,  and  descried,  oh,  far  away !  that  faint  shimmer 
to  the  southward  that  my  heart  told  me  must  be 
the  Mediterranean.  It  was  a  far  journey;  shall  I 
ever,  in  some  fortunate  year,  or  in  a  marvellous  sweet 
dream  before  I  die,  see  that  white  road  again  ?  Shall 
I  once  more,  footsore  and  almost  weeping  with  the 
steepness  of  the  way,  under  an  implacable  night,  see 
with  a  passion  of  joy  the  friendly  lights  of  the  inn 
by  the  wayside  ?  Shall  I  ever  again  talk  with  the 
dreamers  in  the  fields  at  evening  or  pray  with  the 
monks  in  the  mountains  or  listen  to  the  music  of 
the  villages  ?  Oh,  has  my  God  so  sweet  a  recom- 
pense for  me  in  His  heart,  after  all,  before  I  must 
for  ever  forget  the  sun  ?  I  never  envied  Borrow 
with  his  Bible  in  Spain  since  I  have  walked  with 
the  saints  beside  clear  rivers,  under  shivering  poplars, 
and  with  kings  through  the  plains  of  France,  nor, 
busied  with  these,  did  I  forget  to  love  the  people 
by  the  way.  Oh  world  !  how  can  a  man  bear  to 
die  ?  Have  not  the  children  laughed  with  me  be- 
cause we  were  alive  and  because  I  went  down 
the  road,  staying  nowhere  long,  having  no  abiding 
city? 

So  I  met  Life,  not  in  the  city,  where,  it  may  well 
be,   one  would   not  give  up  all   for  her  as   I   would 


6  ITALY   OF   TO-DAY 

do,  but  in  the  winds  of  the  great  plains  of  France, 
that  went  past  me  for  days  like  a  splendid  host, 
and  in  the  sun  of  the  south  and  in  the  shadows  of 
the  olive -gardens  of  Italy.  And  I  have  known,  at 
a  turn  of  the  road  in  the  silence  of  the  sunshine, 
or  at  the  sudden  noise  of  waves  far  below  me,  or 
at  some  gesture  of  the  mountains,  or  when  a  child 
has  led  me  into  some  immortal  city,  a  passion  of 
sudden  glory  fill  my  being,  so  that  for  a  moment 
I  too  have  seen,  as  it  were,  the  gates  of  Paradise 
and  the  angel  with  the  flaming  sword.  And  once, 
in  a  lonely  and  sweet  place,  I  lived  for  a  week  with 
a  shepherd  whom  I  had  met  tending  his  sheep  as 
in  old  time.  And  he  told  me  the  history  of  the 
world  under  an  almond-tree  that  had  just  finished 
blossoming.  He  was  lonely  on  the  mountains  and 
told  the  time  by  the  sun ;  yet  he,  too,  had  dreamed 
of  invincible  cities  and  of  the  villages  among  the 
vines,  and  of  Death  that  was  still  unashamed  under 
the  stars. 

"  Ah,"  he  said  to  me  on  a  night  of  innumerable 
stars,  "all  the  stars  of  God's  house  cannot  put  out 
the  Night." 

So  I  passed  ever  towards  Rome.  And  at  the  end 
of  my  day's  journey  I  was  not  so  terribly  far  from 
the  place  whence  I  had  set  out  in  the  morning,  as 
you  will  surely  be,  making  pilgrimage,  as  I  foresee 
you  will,  by  railway.  And  yet,  as  God  is  my  judge, 
reader,  what  in  this  earth  I  love  have  I  in  common 
with  you  ?     God,  who  is  our  Father,  knows.     Even 


ON   THE   WAY  7 

if  you  have  read  so  far,  my  shepherd,  who  was  a 
thousand  times  more  real  than  you  can  ever  be, 
has  sent  you,  it  may  be,  to  Baedeker  and  reality. 
Reality?  Well,  I  know  Italy  well,  having  loved 
her  for  a  matter  of  all  the  long  years  of  youth:  drug 
me  in  Soho  and  carry  me  whither  you  will,  if  it  be  to 
Italy  you  have  brought  me,  I  would  name  her;  yet 
if  Italy  be  anywhere  in  Baedeker,  you  shall  burn 
me  at  Amen  Corner  with  the  paper  and  pasteboard 
of  my  books. 

No,  no ;  for  the  glory  of  her  name  men  have  been 
persuaded  for  more  than  a  thousand  years  to  embrace 
Death.  All  the  far-fetched  greatness,  all  the  elo- 
quent renown,  all  the  pride  and  splendour  of  the 
hearts  of  men  were  her  birthright,  that  even  our 
England  had  to  fetch  from  her  fair,  invincible  cities. 
How  often  on  a  summer's  day,  in  all  the  weary  delight 
of  her  sun  and  sky,  have  the  tears  sprung  to  my 
eyes  as  I  looked  on  the  pallid  splendour  of  Genoa 
from  the  sea,  or  gazed  with  a  kind  of  sacred  awe 
from  the  tower  of  Pisa  upon  the  immortal  gesture 
of  the  mountains ;  or,  realising  quite  suddenly  some 
light  among  the  shadows,  some  aspect  of  the  sky, 
some  glamour  of  the  evening,  my  heart  has  leapt 
up  as  I  wandered  through  the  streets  of  that  brave, 
sweet  city,  the  mistress  of  Dante  and  Michael  Angelo 
and  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  on  the  banks  of  Arno.  For 
your  soul's  safety  you  dare  not  look  for  Italy  in 
Baedeker.  But  on  a  night  that  is  musical  with 
voices  out  of  the  past,  when  the  tireless  singing  of 


8  ITALY   OF  TO-DAY 

the  mandolines  comes  to  you  from  across  that  yellow 
river,  and  the  stars  are  beating  in  heaven  with  the 
ecstasy  of  the  night,  and  the  profound  sky  is  as 
tender  as  the  eyes  of  Mary  Madonna,  and  because 
of  the  wideness  of  the  world  and  the  glory  of  it 
you  are  cleansed  from  all  the  stains  of  life  and  the 
blackness  of  the  North  and  the  noise  of  its  trum- 
pery cities,  there  in  that  hour  look  into  your  own 
heart,  and  it  may  well  be  you  will  find  Italy  smiling 
at  you  from  its  most  sacred  depth. 

Love  is  not  to  be  hired,  nor  can  you  buy  knowledge 
with  anything  but  love.  And  here  is  the  Land  of 
Heart's  Desire,  the  dear  land  our  fathers  sought  in 
youth,  so  that  they  might  have  something  lovely 
stored  in  their  hearts  to  remember  in  the  quiet  and 
noiseless  years  of  age.  You  dare  not  follow  in  their 
footsteps  with  that  shouting,  scarlet  book  in  your 
hand,  led  by  the  buttonhole  by  a  scientific  German. 
He  who  would  see  Rome  shall  never  come  in  the 
train  of  the  Goth,  unless,  as  before,  he  comes  and 
finds  it  a  ruin.  And  yet,  I  think,  indeed,  that  is 
what  he  has  done.  That  destroying  army  from 
Northern  Europe,  that  sacked  Rome  so  many  ages 
ago,  only  grows  more  innumerable  every  year,  more 
contemptible,  more  disgusting;  so  that  really  Rome 
having  been  destroyed  any  time  these  many  cen- 
turies, it  is  only  the  old  remorseless  ruins  that  their 
ancestors  have  thrown  down  that  the  tourist  to-dav 
looks  on  with  a  languid  curiosity.  Rome  is  only 
immortal  in  the  hearts  of  men.     To  the  crowd  she 


ON    THE   WAY  9 

is  but  a  heap  of  ruins,  or  a  noisy  modern  capital, 
or  the  despised  and  hated  Christian  name  of  the 
Catholic  Church.  Ah,  you  who  come  to  her  and 
are  to  be  seen  nowadays,  alas !  among  her  ruins, 
listening  to  innumerable  lies,  or  racing  through  her 
galleries,  or  touting  for  invitations  from  her  new- 
made  nobles  and  princes,  you  all  seek  something 
immortal,  one  may  suppose,  yet  how  rudely,  how 
noisily  you  pursue  that  which  is  only  to  be  ap- 
proached after  due  ceremony,  very  quietly,  through 
long  lanes  of  the  old  culture  and  after  long  days 
and  nights  of  enthusiasm  and  love.  That  divinity 
you  seek  has  fled  in  fear  at  your  approach.  You, 
sir,  are  clothed,  perhaps,  for  golf,  or  some  form  of 
violent  exercise ;  are  you  then  in  pursuit  of  that 
divine  being  you  will  never  even  see  ?  Would  you 
hunt  her,  sir  ?  And  you,  madam,  it  is  not,  I  imagine, 
possible  to  offend  one  so  indifferent  to  the  feelings 
of  others,  therefore  I  do  not  scruple  to  remind  you 
that  in  Rome  one  should  do  as  the  Romans  do,  and 
not  seek  in  vain,  in  vain  I  assure  you,  to  advertise 
the  national  dress  of  the  sex  from  the  hockey -fields 
of  Yorkshire  or  the  golf-links  of  far  Idaho.  So, 
where  Csesar  trod,  where  Caesar  sleeps,  one  can 
hear  to-day  the  silly  shuffle  of  the  flocks  of  tourists, 
driven,  by  the  ridiculous  barking  of  the  rote-learned 
sheep-dog  guide,  from  one  immortal,  desecrated  spot 
to  another  as  emotionless. 

And  now,  in  the  City  that  flung  out  the   House 
of  Tarquin    in    order    to   welcome,    more   than    two 


io  ITALY   OF   TO-DAY 

thousand  years  later,  the  House  of  Savoy,  associa- 
tions of  hotel -keepers  and  other  bawds  have  com- 
bined in  order  to  display  more  in  accordance  with 
the  barbarian  taste  the  beautiful  body  of  Italy  to 
the  vile  and  ignorant  gaze  of  the  Great  Beast  from 
every  vandal  and  successful  country  in  Europe.  The 
Italians  may  now  be  said  to  live  on  the  prostitution 
of  their  country  to  the  stranger.  Monster  hotels 
are  built  in  the  beautiful  Piazzas  in  order  that  any 
fool  who  can  pay  and  gape  may  be  housed,  not 
indeed  as  befits  him  but  in  a  manner  he  can  admire. 
The  market  -  places  of  the  people,  hallowed  for  I 
know  not  how  many  centuries,  in  the  pure  and 
lovely  memories  of  those  who  are  happily  dead,  are 
pulled  down,  and  German  beer -palaces,  and  flashy 
and  foreign  shops,  stocked  with  heavily  taxed  bad 
German  goods,  are  run  up  with  a  Carnival  King  a' 
horseback  in  the  midst  of  the  square  that  now  bears 
his  name,  in  order  that  the  foreigners  from  artistic 
America,  or  sensitive  England,  or  austere  Germany, 
may  not  be  offended  in  Italia  la  Nuova. 

This  kind  of  thing  is,  I  think,  known  as  "  better- 
ment "  to  the  halfpenny  and  more  ignorant  press  of 
my  country.  Such  a  digging  up  and  flinging  into 
the  dust -heap  of  our  fathers'  bones  has  their  ap- 
plause, I  know.  They  see,  no  doubt,  in  that  which 
displaces  the  beauty  that  sometimes  seems  to  me 
to  be  fleeing  from  us  for  ever,  the  realisation  of  their 
own  vile  imaginations.  It  may  be  there  is  yet  a 
great  while  for  them  to  triumph.      Yet  he,  our  de- 


ON    THE   WAY  n 

liverer,  will  one  day  come,  with  unscabbarded  sword 
and  the  tramp  of  soldiers,  or  it  may  be  silent  as  time 
is  and  sweet  as  the  dawn.  The  world  has  not  yet 
said  Amen  to  the  work  of  the  Great  Beast. 

So,  reader,  you  see  you  have,  after  all,  been  be- 
guiled into  reading  the  book  of  a  very  fool,  an 
idealist,  a  valiant  silly-pop,  and  a  dreamer.  Yet 
Italy  is  an  unpractical  land ;  I  shall  keep  you  in 
better  humour  than  your  rubicund  and  portly  Ger- 
man. And  I  shall  tell  you  of  new  things,  perhaps — 
but  not  all  by  way  of  information. 

Will  you  set  out  where  the  road  leads  ?  It  is 
my  opinion  you  will  not.  Yet  you  will  often  be 
weary  at  evening,  but  not  of  the  white  roads  you 
will  seldom  see,  that  are  part  of  the  life  of  me  and 
call  me  like  a  woman.  Of  all  that  you  know 
nothing.  So  be  it.  Yet  it  may  be  that  on  some 
fortunate  night  your  angel  shall  lead  you,  perhaps, 
to  the  long-desired  steps  of  San  Pietro  in  Rome,  and 
you  too  will  remember  only  old  things  for  a  time, 
where,  oh,  once  upon  a  time,  all  the  kings  in  the 
world  were  proud  to  kneel,  and  there  even  you  too 
may  chance  to  see  the  gates  of  Paradise  and  the 
angel  with  the  ilaming  sword. 


I 


II. 


UNITED    ITALY. 

T  was  perhaps  but  yesterday  that  Italy  ceased 
to  be  a  vision  and  became  a  Kingdom.  Yet 
she  has  already  thrown  far  from  her  the  high  and 
sweet  dreams  of  youth,  and  is  grown  as  sceptical 
as  a  disillusioned  man  at  the  approach  of  middle 
age. 

All  the  heroic  figures  of  the  Homeric  years  of 
attack  and  no  less  noble  defence  are  gone ;  and 
with  them  too  has  fled  Faith,  into  whose  eyes 
Garibaldi  had  gazed  often  upon  the  cliffs  of  Sicily, 
whose  words  Mazzini  never  ceased  to  echo,  upon 
whose  lips  even  to-day  the  eyes  of  the  Church  are 
set,  waiting  in  magnificent  patience  till  they  form 
the  image  of  the  word  "Amen." 

It  would  seem  that  the  mere  glance  of  death  is 
sufficient  to  make  immortal  that  man  upon  whom 
it  rests  even  for  a  moment.  For  though  Garibaldi 
had  found  in  the  fury  and  freedom  of  the  sea  the 
secret  of  his  patient  desire,  it  was  not  till  he  had 
been  condemned  to  die  for  the  fierce  love  he  bore 


UNITED    ITALY  13 

Genoa  la  Superba  that  he  was  mastered  by  the  glory 
of  his  passion    against    authority.       It   was  then,   it 
would  seem,  that  his  dauntless  spirit  first  experienced 
the  joy  that   he  ever  received  from  the   nearness  of 
danger.     And  it  is  almost  as  a  kind  of  Lucifer  that 
we    see   him    in    the    end,    in    rebellion    against    all 
Heaven,  setting  his  proud  and  superb  dream  as  the 
end    of  his    desire,    following   it    even    to    the    last, 
scattering  before  him,  in  his  chase  of  it,  Popes  and 
Kings,   while   behind    him — but    his   gaze   was   ever 
set  forwards — followed  all  the  tragedy  of  his  desires, 
all   the    misery  of  the   fulfilment   of  his   dreams,   all 
the   loathsome  bestiality  of  the  crowd,  and  the  im- 
mense  clamour  of  implacable  greed.       So  that   one 
realises   how  even  a  soul   so   noble   and   splendid  as 
his  is  but  the  very  plaything  of  its  own  dreams,  the 
slave  of  its  own  ideas   for  which   at   the  last  every- 
thing must  be  sacrificed — all  the  visions  it  has  really 
seen,  the  beauty  of  the   only   dreams   that   were   al- 
together lovely,  the  gentle   nobility  of  those  things 
it  really  desired.     To  love  one's  land  too  well  has 
ever  proved  fatal   to   the   lover :    Garibaldi,   no   less 
than  Sir  Walter    Raleigh    or  General    Gordon,  was 
killed  at  last  by  her  to  whom  he  had  given  every- 
thing.    Hopelessly  out-generaled,  out-numbered,  and 
out-marched,   we  see   him    at    the   last   an    old   and 
broken  man  at  the  age  of  sixty -three  leading  some 
irregular   troops   in    an    alien    cause   in   the    Vosges 
Mountains  in  the  war  of  '70,  as  a  kind  of  relief  from 
the  unbearable  weight  of  the   failure  of  his  dreams, 


14  ITALY   OF   TO-DAY 

and  at  last,  on  a  tiny  island  bought  for  him  by  the 
English,  in  the  hands  of  women,  he  died,  June  2, 
1882.  One  has  there  something  of  the  marvel  of 
the  shooting-star,  something  too  of  its  swiftness  in 
passing  away  yet  remaining  as  something  beautiful 
and  wonderful  in  our  memories.  After  all,  his  red- 
shirts  grappled  Italy  together  into  one  land ;  and 
though  it  may  be  he  was  scarcely  anything  more 
than  a  great  and  cunning  captain  of  irregular  troops, 
his  dreams  have  hypnotised  not  those  troops  alone,  but 
a  whole  world,  and  for  this  reason  his  name  stands 
first  among  those  who  in  making  modern  Italy  have 
brought  not  peace  but  a  sword. 

And  we  find  the  natural  result  of  their  failure  in 
the  pretentious  statues  that  are  scattered  up  and 
down  the  beautiful  cities :  it  is  not  that  the  men 
they  commemorate  were  not  sometimes  great  and 
noble,  but  that  those  who  have  commemorated  them 
have  for  the  most  part  been  full  of  resentment  against 
their  enemies,  tasteless  and  tactless,  and  without  the 
elementary  sense  of  beauty.  The  statue  of  Garibaldi 
on  the  Janiculum  is  perhaps  one  of  the  most  offensive, 
in  that  there  the  dreamer  turns  eyes  that  the  crowd 
has  dared  to  believe  were  impudent  on  the  Vatican 
and  St  Peter's  Church.  It  is  so  childish  a  sneer 
there,  in  sight  of  the  Alban  Hills  and  the  mountains 
that  Horace  once  looked  upon,  that  have  seen 
Romulus  slay  his  brother  and  have  witnessed  the 
expulsion  of  the  kings  and  the  tears  of  the  mother 
of  the   Gracchi,  that  have  gazed  into  the  immortal 


UNITED    ITALY  15 

face  of  Caesar  and  unmoved  have  witnessed  the 
gathering  and  passing  of  his  armies,  the  triumphs 
accorded  by  the  Senate,  and  the  Judas  face  of  his 
murderer.  Those  hills  have  watched  innumerable 
emperors  pass  by,  have  seen  the  flames  leap  up  that 
were  the  tongues  shouting  the  name  of  the  Son  of 
God  to  all  the  world.  And  it  is  in  their  sight  one 
finds  a  huge  figure  on  horseback  sneering  at  all  that ; 
suggesting  every  day  and  every  night  the  glib  lie 
which  Italy  has  believed  so  easily ;  so  that  she  will 
tell  you  almost  with  pride  that  her  history  began 
with  the  year  1848. 

It  was  on  a  March  evening  in  that  volcanic  year 
that  an  immense  crowd,  fascinated  and  exalted  by 
the  dreams  and  visions  of  Mazzini,  waited  before  the 
palace  of  the  King  of  Savoy  in  Turin  till,  inspired 
by  the  passions  of  his  people,  he,  "  tired  of  shrinking 
alternately  from  the  dagger  of  the  Carbonari  and 
the  chocolate  of  the  Jesuits,"  appeared  with  a  tri- 
colour flag  upon  the  balcony,  and  was  persuaded 
almost  against  his  own  judgment  ("  il  Re  Tentenna  ") 
to  declare  war  on  Austria,  Doubtless  that  night  saw 
the  star  of  united  Italy  creep  into  the  farthest  sky. 
Yet  are  all  her  unequalled  services,  all  the  noble 
laws  of  the  Republic,  all  the  red  years  of  Empire, 
all  the  splendid  victories  of  the  Holy  Empire  and 
the  ecstatic  patience  of  the  Papacy  to  go  for  nothing  ? 
On  that  night  in  1848  Italy's  recorded  history  spanned 
more  than  2200  years.  Looking  back  over  the  fifty  four 
years  since  that  luminous  night,  can  we  dare  to  admit 


16  ITALY   OF   TO-DAY 

that  these  puny  months  that  number  less  than  the 
years  that  went  before  have  outweighed  in  virtue 
and  splendour  and  glory  the  heroic  ages  in  the 
history  of  what  for  most  of  that  time  was  almost 
the  very  world  ?  There  is  little  to  be  very  ashamed 
of  in  that  old  and  princely  yet  humble  past,  but  in 
the  sordid  years  since  1848  we  find  so  few  great 
or  splendid  sins,  so  few  really  heroic  men,  so  little 
honour,  so  much  vulgarity  and  vainglory  and  vile 
meanness  and  littleness.  What  has  been  ill  done, 
and  there  has  been  much  ill  done,  has  been  magnified 
in  vileness  and  hatefulness  by  its  unutterable  mean- 
ness and  sordidness.  Has  Roman  history  anything 
so  vile,  so  brutal,  to  show  as  the  gambling  mania 
that  ruined  all  those  princes  who  tried  to  make 
money  out  of  their  own  defeat  and  the  successes 
of  their  enemies,  who  pandered  to  the  vilest  desires 
for  destruction  and  brutality  on  the  part  of  the  new- 
comers— the  crowd  ?  I  cannot  find  it.  Yet  that 
frightful  patricide,  that  bloodless  crime,  is  considered 
almost  as  a  mere  misfortune  by  the  whole  world  that 
has  really  lost  its  sense  of  proportion  in  its  passion 
for  gold.  It  is  horrible  —  humanity  is  concerned 
to-day  less  with  the  character  or  the  nobility  or  the 
birth  of  a  man  than  with  the  depth  of  his  pockets. 
The  smartest  thief  is  the  most  lordly  hero  ;  one  is 
confused  when  the  greatest  titles  are  easily  acquired 
by  a  successful  banker  or  an  universal  grocer  or 
rhetorical  deputy.  It  is  not  an  aristocracy  (Heaven 
save   the   word !)   of  talent    one   objects   to,   but   an 


UNITED   ITALY  17 

aristocracy  of  knaves  and  villains.  How  did  these 
men  obtain  their  titles  ?  by  birth,  by  theft,  by 
bribery,  by  auction  ?  Was  Garibaldi  a  prince  or 
Mazzini  a  duke  in  this  kingdom  "by  the  grace  of 
God  and  the  will  of  the  people  "  ?  Yet  what  a  fool 
I  am — this  is  no  new  thing,  say  you.  'Tis  none 
the  less  a  damnable  thing  on  that  account.  Perhaps 
it  is  the  unconscious  fault  of  the  Socialist — give  every 
man  an  equal  chance  and  it  will  go  hard  but  the 
knave  will  win  the  prize.  It  is  tiresome  to  lay  every 
evil  at  the  door  of  the  Socialist ;  moreover,  it  is  use- 
less to  do  that  in  Italy.  The  future  is  most  probably 
in  the  hands  of  the  Socialists,  and  though  I  am  not 
one  of  them,  I  am  glad  to  know  for  sure  that  they 
are  not  contented  with  the  present  state  of  affairs. 
But  who  has  the  heart  now  to  sing  ? — 

"Fratelli  d'  Italia 
L'  Italia  s'  e  desta." 

No,  no,  Italy  has  fallen  asleep  again.  The  old 
Faiths  are  worn  out,  one  no  longer  believes  them ; 
there  have  been  disappointments ;  terrible  lies,  that 
have  been  tended  for  years  with  all  the  care  given 
to  a  delicate  child,  have  grown  up  and  are  devouring 
the  Italians.  The  Italians — it  was  easier  to  find 
them  twenty  years  ago  than  it  is  to-day.  To-day 
there  are  Romans,  Florentines,  Neapolitans,  Vene- 
tians, and  a  few  Italians  who  it  may  be  either  have 
forgotten  where  they  were  born  or  do  not  care  to 
tell.     Yet  the  old  Faiths  are  not  dead.      I  am  sure 

B 


18  ITALY   OF  TO-DAY 

they,  like  Italy,  will  awake  at  the  voice  of  the  de- 
liverer.    Ah !  never  doubt  that,  believe  it,  believe  it. 

You,  reader,  when  in  England,  possibly  have  often 
spoken  of  the  "dying  Latin  peoples,"  or  the  "de- 
cadent Latin  nations,"  or  of  the  "  idle  Italians," 
and  so  forth  and  so  on :  but  in  Italy  it  is  impossible 
to  pish  so.  The  Italians  are  neither  idle  nor  dying. 
They  have  already  within  living  memory  produced 
many  very  great  men  :  Garibaldi,  Mazzini,  Cavour, 
Lombroso,  and  others  whose  names  perhaps  have 
not  reached  so  far  as  the  suburbs  of  London.  One 
day  they  will  produce  a  great  leader,  which  is  indeed 
their  chief  need,  and  he  will  awaken  them.  Their 
present  condition  only  shows  how  utterly  illogical 
the  idea  of  democracy  is,  how  utterly  dependent  any 
unfortunate  country  in  the  grip  of  this  disease  is 
on  her  leaders,  those  whose  first  duty  it  is  to 
dominate  the  crowd,  to  put  Demos  in  his  place, 
which  is  always  behind, — he  is  a  good  follower,  as 
Italian  history,  no  less  than  English,  will  easily 
prove.  Even  at  moments  of  high  passion  it  is  always 
the  idea  of  one  man  that  drives  the  crowd  to  action, 
as  on  that  March  night  in  1848. 

Meantime  one  sees  a  strange  and  sad  spectacle. 
In  an  old  book  I  have  read  that  a  house  divided 
against  itself  cannot  stand  —  if  ever  there  were  a 
house  or  nation  in  that  sorry  condition,  you  see  it 
when  you  look  on  Italy.  And  there,  I  think,  I  touch 
the  root  of  all  the  trouble  that  has  made  the  past 
thirty-two  years  less  splendid,  less  happy,  than  they 


UNITED    ITALY  19 

should  have  been.  If  all  Italy  has  lost  faith  in  her 
destiny  and  herself  —  he  who  sleeps  within  the 
Vatican,  a  prisoner  like  Peter,  has  never  doubted 
his  vision  or  his  dream  for  a  single  moment.  In 
how  much  worse  a  plight  have  been  the  former 
vicegerents  of  the  Prince  of  Life !  The  Vatican  is 
not  so  poor  a  house  for  the  Church  as  the  Castle 
of  Sant'  Angelo  with  a  yelling  horde  of  villains  under 
the  Constable  de  Bourbon  (whom  Cellini  swears  he 
shot)  threatening  to  pull  the  very  world  about  the 
ears  of  Holy  Church.  And  how  much  better  is 
Rome  than  Avignon  or  Gaeta  ?  Doubtless  that 
prisoner  dreams,  and  nobly  too.  Yet,  consider,  is 
it  so  impossible  for  Pope  and  King,  Church  and 
Kingdom,  to  agree  ?  Suppose  it  is.  Then  must 
Italy  suffer.  And  one  day,  say  a  thousand  years 
from  now,  either  more  or  less  as  you  will,  the  king- 
dom of  Italy  crumbles,  or  whatsoever  House  is  on 
the  Italian  throne  fails  to  produce  an  heir,  or  Italy 
like  Greece  is  really  a  thing  of  the  past,  still  there  is 
that  claimant  only  waiting  the  will  of  God.  It  may 
be  we  have  among  us  sequestered  him  to  America, 
or  even,  as  we  did  Napoleon,  confined  his  body  to 
a  tiny  island,  yet  that  marvellous,  miraculous,  and 
stupendous  idea  that  he  personifies  we  can  never 
slay,  never  in  all  the  countless  millions  of  years  in 
which  it  may  be  humanity  will  still  laugh  into  the 
face  of  the  sun  and  be  sorry  to  die ;  never  though 
all  knowledge  fail,  though  the  white  man  has  fallen 
before  the  Slav  and  he  before  the  yellow  man,  and 


20  ITALY   OF   TO-DAY 

he  again  in  the  inscrutable  wisdom  and  justice  of 
time  before  some  other  race ;  never  can  we  destroy 
with  all  our  cruelty  or  our  sufferance  or  our  science 
or  our  scorn  that  Church  founded  upon  the  Rock, 
against  which  our  God  has  promised  no  gates  of 
hell  shall  ever  prevail,  to  whom  He  has  said,  "  Lo, 
I  am  with  you  alway,  even  to  the  end  of  the  world." 

But  is  it  so  impossible  for  Church  and  Kingdom 
to  agree  ?  I  will  never  believe  it.  One  day  that 
deliverer  will  come  who  will  give  to  his  beautiful 
country  the  crowning  gift  of  Peace.     He  will 

"  Cleanse  the  stuff 'd  bosom  of  that  perilous  stuff 
That  preys  upon  the  heart," 

and  Italy  once  more  will  forget  her  childish  passions 
and  furies  and  her  suicidal  purpose  of  revenge,  re- 
membering her  greater  past,  when  the  dignity  of 
her  Senate  struck  terror  into  the  heart  of  the  Bar- 
barian and  the  most  precious  altars  of  God  were 
built  in  the  hearts  of  her  children. 

Is  it  not  possible  that,  even  as  England  appears 
to  be  willing  to  sacrifice  everything  to  her  principle 
of  Free  Trade,  so  Italy  may  very  easily  pay  too 
dearly  for  her  dreams  of  unity  ?  It  is  not  that  that 
dream  is  not  great  and  noble,  but  that  in  spite  of 
innumerable  sacrifices  it  remains  still  a  dream. 
Never  in  the  history  of  the  world  has  there  been 
unity  in  that  old  and  dear  land,  though  the  idea 
has  lifted  a  whole  people  towards  heroism,  and  in- 
spired  the  thoughts  of  many  dreamers.      Is  it   not 


UNITED    ITALY  21 

possible  that,  after  all,  the  happiness,  the  greatness, 
the  character,  the  history  of  a  people  are  worth 
more  than  a  dream  which  Nature  seems  to  have 
forbidden  reality  to  claim  ?  To  buy  unity  at  the 
price  of  destruction  and  death  seems  but  a  silly 
bargain.  And  who,  knowing  Italy  to-day,  can  say 
with  knowledge  and  honesty  that  Florence  and 
Naples,  for  instance,  are  sister  cities,  in  the  same 
way  that  Oxford  and  Bristol  or  Manchester  and 
Birmingham  are.  Just  as  there  are  centuries  of 
history  behind  our  England  circling  her  with  inde- 
structible deeds  and  thoughts  and  passions  and 
fights,  so  there  is  a  longer  tale  of  centuries  behind 
the  Italian  States  sundering  them  with  deeds  bloodier 
and  more  terrible  than  any  that  have  welded  us 
together ;  hatreds  that  have  lived  a  thousand  years, 
traditions  that  were  born  when  our  Europe  was 
born,  distrust  that  the  last  fifty  years  have  only 
served  to  fan  into  furious  antipathy.  Is  all  this, 
the  unforgetable  story  of  the  world,  to  go  for  nothing 
in  the  hearts  of  men  ?  Is  it  so  easy  to  carve  out 
of  their  souls  the  things  they  have  heard  with  their 
ears,  that  their  fathers  have  declared  unto  them 
of  the  old  time  long  ago  ?  How  many  years  it  took 
to  unite  England  and  Scotland !  Yet  there  are  not 
less  but  greater  reasons  for  hatred  and  distrust  be- 
tween North  and  South  in  Italy  than  ever  there 
were  between  England  and  Scotland.  Yes,  and  as 
great  a  difference  in  race  too,  as  instinctive  a  dislike. 
We  are  in  such  a  hurry  to  be  rich  and  great  and 


22  ITALY   OF   TO-DAY 

powerful  that  we  forget  it  takes  more  than  a  hundred 
years  for  the  smallest  wound  to  heal.  We  too,  like 
the  Americans,  are  always  out  of  breath — it  is  a 
bad  habit. 

But   if  unity  is   the   true   ideal  for  Italy,   then   I 
think    there    are    two   things    necessary   to   be   won 
before  that  dream  will  become  bright  reality.     The 
first  is  good  government,  and  the  second  follows  as 
the  night  the  day — peace  with   the  Vatican.      Let 
the  Government  convince,  not  England  or  Germany 
alone,  but  all  Italy  too,  that  its  idea  of  rule  is  not 
to    spoil    the    people,    not    to    enrich    its   wretched 
deputies,   not   to   make   grandiose   alliances,    not   to 
avenge    itself  upon   the    Church,    but    to    make    its 
people  happy  and  prosperous,  and  to  train  them  to 
use  liberty  rightly.      For  the   Italians — as,  in   spite 
of  themselves,  one  desires  to  call  them — are  capable 
of  great  happiness  beyond  anything  dreamed  of  in 
England   since    Cromwell    came   and,    having  failed 
in   everything   else,    succeeded    in    making   us    sad. 
There   must   be   no  more   adventures   in   Africa,  no 
more  bank  scandals,  no  more  despoiling  of  monas- 
teries,  no  more  throwing  of  nuns  into  the  streets, 
no  more  robbery,  no  more  bribery,  no  more  wholesale 
nurder  at  Ostia  and  elsewhere,  no  more  cowardice ; 
but   there  must   be  Justice,   so   that   the  laws  shall 
not   be   administered   in   one  way  to  him  who   can 
pay  and  in  quite  another  to  him  who  cannot.     More- 
over, the  Royal  House  of  Savoy  must  cease  to  ad- 
vertise itself  by  renaming  old  streets  after  itself,  or 


UNITED    ITALY  23 

placing  wonderful  and  ridiculous  statues  of  its  mem- 
bers in  all  sorts  of  unexpected  and  unsuitable  places. 

At  the  present  time  the  Church  does  far  more  for 
Italy  than  the  Government  attempts.  For  while 
the  Government  taxes  the  people  within  an  inch  of 
their  lives  the  clergy  are  busied  in  good  works. 

Meantime  the  people,  of  whom  no  one  who  knows 
them  dare  despair, — nay,  rather  he  who  knows  them 
best  will  believe  in  them  most  firmly, — are  helping 
themselves.  Everywhere  agricultural  syndicates  and 
people's  banks  are  appearing,  and  thus  the  money- 
lender Jew,  though  by  no  means  extirpated,  no  longer 
finds  an  easy  prey  in  the  farmer  in  need  of  capital. 
No  doubt  the  State,  too,  will  help  more  and  more, 
— it  is  to  be  believed.  Already  it  is  trying  with  the 
help  of  local  bodies  to  prevent  malaria,  which  still 
claims  some  18,000  lives  every  year.  But  before  all 
things  Peace.  Till  that  is  given  to  Italy  by  those 
who  govern  her,  to  combat  the  malaria  is  but  to 
physic  a  man  for  indigestion  who  is  dying  of  a 
terrible  fever.  At  present  those  who  are  most  loving 
to  the  Government  are  least  in  their  allegiance  to 
God.  For  in  Italy,  as  in  Spain,  Protestantism  is 
the  merest  merry-andrew.  It  has  made  no  impres- 
sion whatever  on  the  people,  nor  will  it  ever  do  so, 
save  to  convince  them  of  the  unreasonableness  of 
Religion — a  thing  patent  to  every  educated  man. 
In  Rome,  no  less  than  in  the  other  fair  cities,  to 
be  seen  at  Mass  is  as  good  as  to  forfeit  your  position 
under   Government.       I   do   not    fear   contradiction. 


24  ITALY   OF  TO-DAY 

The  Italian  Government  is  as  hostile  to  religion  as 
the  French  is  at  this  time,  but  less  openly  for  fear 
of  the  people.  For  the  Italian,  taking  him  in  the 
main,  still  looks  towards  heaven  with  hope  and  for 
other  reasons  than  to  admire  the  stars  or  to  point 
a  jest  at  Joshua.  Somewhere  behind  his  ample  and 
profound  sky  he  knows  Christ  waits  with  all  His 
saints,  nor  does  he  believe  for  a  moment  that  he 
is  deserted  by  them.  He  will  desire  the  priest  to 
give  God's  blessing  on  his  crops  as  he  sows  his  seed, 
and  remembers  the  old  stories  of  the  Gospel  and  the 
lives  of  the  Saints.  To  scoff  at  Christ  is  still  to  his 
mind  blasphemy.  So  in  a  world  that  he  loves  and 
makes  beautiful,  he  is  perhaps  a  little  behind  the 
times;  but  the  blood  of  Caesar's  armies  is  in  his 
veins,  it  were  well  not  to  torture  him  beyond  endur- 
ance, nor  to  anger  him  more  than  is  necessary. 


III. 


IL   PAPA-RE. 

SO  soon  as  we  have  climbed  up  to  the  last  Alp, 
beautiful  as  though  touched  with  the  sword 
of  the  archangel,  and  in  some  gap  among  those 
spectral  peaks,  moved,  perhaps  for  the  first  time,  to 
deep  emotion,  have  knelt  to  gaze  down  on  Italy,  we 
realise  that  a  new  land,  quite  different  from  any 
of  those  we  have  ever  seen  before,  lies  before  us. 
In  the  mist  of  early  morning,  with  the  sun  still 
low  on  the  horizon,  in  the  devout  loneliness  of  the 
mountains,  as  the  width  of  the  great  plain  of  Lom- 
bardy  opens  before  us,  with  a  glimpse  of  far-away 
mountains  that  we  can  scarcely  persuade  ourselves 
to  believe  to  be  the  Apennines,  we  almost  imagine 
that  we  see  cupolas,  innumerable  towns,  and  the 
strong  and  fair  walls  of  cities,  and  it  is  not  difficult 
to  believe  for  a  moment  that  in  the  pure  and 
nimble  air  we  can  see  even  so  far  as  Rome  her- 
self. I  think  it  is  some  such  beautiful  and  im- 
mortal city,  built  of  the  desire  of  the  world's  heart, 
that  we  see  when  we  look  towards  Rome  in  reality, 


26  ITALY   OF   TO-DAY 

at  least  from  a  great  distance,  as  from  Tivoli  over 
the  Campagna,  when  the  dome  of  St  Peter's  is  like 
a  ship  for  ever  a-sail  in  the  distance,  beneath  which 
the  very  precious  dreams  of  an  awakened  world 
live ;  and  where,  in  spite  of  unquenchable  laughter, 
innumerable  pilgrims  still  kneel  before  one  who  is 
a  king  and  in  prison. 

And  being  very  young,  it  was  thus  I  came  to 
Rome.  I  was  a  very  fool,  and,  as  I  have  told  you 
before,  I  came  afoot.  And  when  at  last,  after  many 
adventures,  many  tarryings  by  the  way, — in  Avignon, 
in  Frejus,  in  the  rock  villages  of  the  Riviera,  in  my 
Genoa  of  the  Proud  Heart,  in  white  Pisa  and  Perugia 
that  frowns  over  the  valley  of  St  Francis, — I  came 
toward  Rome  on  that  last  day,  it  was,  I  dare  believe, 
even  in  the  mood  ot  the  old-fashioned  and  reverent 
pilgrim  of  old  time  who  had  followed  in  the  footsteps 
of  an  English  king.  Yes,  and  I,  too,  had  shouted 
"  Ecco  Roma !  "  with  all  my  fathers,  and  crossed  the 
Campagna  hurriedly  in  my  eagerness  to  be  in  the 
very  city  of  Rome  before  another  sunset.  The  first 
church  I  saw  was  St  Peter's,  and  the  first  house, 
the  prison  of  the  Pope.  Yet,  at  the  very  moment 
of  my  arrival,  which  should  have  crowned  my  journey, 
a  kind  of  remorse,  a  horrible  regret,  came  to  me 
for  the  journey  itself  now  ended.  The  freedom  of 
the  road,  the  eternal  expectation  of  to  -  morrow. 
And,  even  as  I  sat  resting  on  the  Spanish  steps,  the 
bells  of  the  Trinita  were  ringing  the  Angelus,  and, 
if  you   will   believe   me,    there   among    the   tattered 


IL   PAPA-RE  27 

"  models,"  almost  before  the  bells  had  finished 
ringing,  I  fell  asleep. 

The  prison  of  the  Pope, — well,  I  thought  it  finer 
than  the  old  prison  of  the  first  Peter,  finer  even  than 
Raphael's  dream  of  it,  painted  in  fresco  on  the  wall 
of  the  Stanze — and  with  a  view !  But  there  was  no 
angel  of  deliverance — yet.  Still  I  will  believe,  though 
you  will  not,  the  prophecies  of  St  Malachy.  A  true 
Irishman  was  he,  with  all  the  gifts  of  his  race  and 
the  piety  too,  Archbishop  of  Armagh,  1134,  m  the 
island  of  Saints. 

In  these  days,  when  a  great  Pope  cannot  be  far 
from  death,  in  Rome  as  of  old  the  soothsayers  have 
at  least  a  hearing.  Traditions,  legends,  and  ap- 
paritions gather  like  a  crowd  of  vultures  round  his 

last  years ;  Centro  has  seen  this,  or  Monsignor 

has  heard  that,  as  they  sat  with  his  Holiness  and 
smoothed  his  forehead  when  it  ached.  The  Blessed 
Virgin  has  deigned  to  comfort  him  whose  last  hours 
no  earthly  woman  may  make  easy.  And  always 
St  Malachy  is  remembered  as  having  named  Leo 
XIII.  "  Lumen  in  ccelo,"  as  he  named  Pius  IX. 
with  equal  truth  "  Crux  de  Cruce."  And,  indeed, 
Leo  XIII.  has  been  "Lumen  in  ccelo"  for  the 
Church. 

When  Pius  IX.  died  in  1878  and  Cardinal  Joachim 
Pecci  was  elected  as  Leo  XIII.,  every  Government 
in  Europe  almost  was  hostile  to  the  Papacy.  In 
Italy  herself  Victor  Emmanuel,  he  who  had  wrested 
Rome  from  the  hands  of  Christ,  was  just  dead,  and 


28  ITALY   OF  TO-DAY 

Humbert  by  the  "  grace  of  God  and  the  will  of  the 
people  "  reigned  in  his  stead.  In  Germany  the  con- 
flict regarding  public  worship  known  as  the  Kultur- 
Kampf  was  at  its  height,  and  Bismarck  was  hostile. 
In  England  the  Government  was  busy  encouraging 
the  Italian  monarchy,  then  eighteen  years  old,  to 
establish  a  national  Church  on  the  splendid  and 
successful  pattern  of  the  Church  of  England ;  in 
France  the  anti-clericals,  under  MM.  Dufaure  and 
Waddington,  were  in  power,  having  caused  Marshal 
MacMahon  to  resign  on  the  13th  December  1877. 
It  was,  too,  in  1878  that  Gambetta  made  his  speech 
proposing  that  theological  students  should  no  longer 
be  free  from  military  service.  Even  Russia  had  been 
angered  by  a  protest  against  her  cruel  policy  in 
Poland.  Indeed  the  whole  world  appears  to  have 
thought  that  at  length  the  gates  of  hell  were  about 
to  swallow  Papacy  and  Church  together. 

It  was  of  a  kingdom  seemingly  so  despised  that 
Leo  XIII.  was  chosen  king.  Nor  has  he  in  his  long 
reign  of  twenty-four  years  ever  proved  himself  any- 
thing but  a  good,  great,  and  wise  ruler.  That  Pius 
IX.  was  a  saint  is  most  probable;  Leo  XIII.  has, 
I  imagine,  no  such  claim,  but  has  been  content  to 
serve  God  well  and  truly  with  the  gifts  that  were 
given  him.  So  England  is  no  longer  quite  so  hostile. 
King  Edward  VII.  is  the  first  king  of  his  House  of 
Hanover  to  receive  a  Cardinal  Prince  in  state.  He, 
too,  like  Queen  Victoria  before  him,  has  sent  a 
special  embassy  to   Rome  to  congratulate  the  Pope 


IL   PAPA-RE  29 

in  his  Jubilee  year.  But  it  was  in  the  very  year 
of  his  election  that  Pope  Leo  restored  the  Hier- 
archy in  Scotland,  and  soon  after  composed  the 
difficulty  with  Bismarck.  In  1894  he  made  his 
peace  with  France  by  recognising  the  Republic, 
and  although  now  the  French  seem  bent  on  sham- 
ing their  country  in  the  eyes  of  the  world  by 
enforcing  the  Law  of  Associations,  it  is,  I  think, 
to  Leo  XIII.  we  owe  the  fact  that  the  Religious 
Orders  are  almost  welcomed  in  England,  where  it 
is  well  to  forget  that  it  is  still  "against  the  law" 
for  a  Jesuit  to  land.  In  fact,  the  Vatican  is  now 
at  peace  with  all  Europe,  with  all  the  world  save 
Italy  only.  And  there  even  Leo's  wisdom  has  found 
no  way  for  peace.  There  he  has  not  dared  to  abate 
one  iota  of  his  demands ;  there  he  still  regards  him- 
self, nor  is  he  alone  in  his  opinion,  as  the  despoiled 
King  of  Rome,  the  Vicar  of  Christ,  now  prisoner 
in  the  Vatican.  And  everywhere,  and  not  least  in 
Italy,  there  has  been  a  wonderful  revival  of  Catholic 
energy.  Innumerable  societies,  unions,  associations, 
have  been  formed,  each  to  express  some  special  side 
or  idea  contained  in  the  Catholic  Church.  So  we 
hear  of  the  "Catholic  Socialists"  in  Italy  and  France 
and  Germany,  of  the  "Christian  Democrats"  in  Italy, 
of  innumerable  congresses  and  reunions,  and  in  Italy, 
too,  of  "  Rural  Unions,"  "  Catholic  Agricultural 
Unions,"  and  "Village  Banks."  For  Leo,  who  has 
been  called  in  England  the  Working-man's  Pope, 
while  resolute  against   socialism  in  any  other  form 


30  ITALY   OF   TO-DAY 

than  that  professed  by  the  Catholic  Socialists,  has 
really  shown  a  feeling  of  tenderness  even  in  his 
policy  and  in  his  encyclicals  for  the  poor  and  the 
unfortunate.  Still,  as  the  Church  never  for  an 
instant  forgets,  she  is  a  kingdom,  not  a  democracy. 
St  Malachy  prophesied  truly  when  he  spoke  of  Leo 
XIII.  as  "  Lumen  in  ccelo,"  for  there  is  no  country 
in  the  world  that  has  not  seen  that  bright  star  on 
his  escutcheon  and  wondered  at  the  immortality  of 
Christ's  Church  militant  here  in  earth. 

But  in  Rome  to-day  that  light  in  heaven  is  setting ; 
everywhere  one  may  hear  whispers  of  the  change 
that  is  coming.  The  Pope  is  ninety-three  and  very 
feeble.  Even  the  cheering  of  the  soldiers  and  the 
people  is  too  much  for  him,  the  triple  crown  too 
heavy,  the  light  of  the  tapers  too  dazzling.  As  he 
draws  near  heaven,  the  world,  even  that  beautiful 
world  seen  from  the  windows  of  the  Vatican  which 
is  all  that  Pope  Leo  has  known  for  twenty-four  years, 
falls  away  as  a  thing  not  to  be  endured.  Only  in 
some  marvellous  sweet  way  the  name  of  Jesus  is  more 
precious,  the  robe  of  Mary  a  fold  of  the  soft  sky. 

Meantime,  an  eager  world  that  is  seldom  in  suffi- 
cient silence  to  think  of  Death  other  than  as  an 
interesting  innovator,  can  hardly  contain  its  im- 
patience for  him  who  is  to  come.  O  cynic  Death, 
who  taught  us  that  "  a  live  dog  is  better  than  a 
dead  Pope,"  there  are  those  who  call  you  eloquent 
in  that  you  have  touched  the  hearts  of  men,  and  just 
because  you  are  indifferent,  and  mighty  because  you 


IL   PAPA-RE  31 

will  not  spare  even  him  who  natters  you.  Ah,  here 
over  the  coffin  and  the  old  white  body  of  the  mightiest 
king  you  will  draw  together  all  the  far-fetched  great- 
ness, all  the  greed,  pride,  and  ambition  of  men, 
among  which  will  be  found  no  single  soul  to  weep 
for  Joachim  Pecci  who  is  dead. 

But  in  spite  of  his  great  and  magnificent  titles, 
in  spite  of  the  visible  significance  of  the  triple  crown, 
the  Pope  is  no  king,  but  the  servant  of  the  servants 
of  God.  Though  the  Vicegerent  of  Christ  is  a 
prisoner  as  his  Master  was,  it  is  still  Jesus,  the 
Prince  of  Life,  safe  in  His  heaven,  who  is  King.  And 
so  one  sees  the  utter  uselessness  of  those  lies  that 
are  believed  so  eagerly  :  that  the  Pope  has  nominated 
his  successor  in  his  will,  as  say  the  wiseacres  Peter 
did,  though,  none  knows  better  than  the  Pope,  Peter 
never  did ;  or  that  he  is  about  to  surrender  the 
temporal  power.  Nor  are  these  the  only  rumours 
that  spread  through  Europe  and  the  world  con- 
cerning so  mysterious  a  kingdom,  for  some  of  the 
more  excitable  wiseacres  will  tell  us  that  Cardinal 
Rampolla  is  about  to  be  disgraced  on  account  of  the 
French  imbroglio,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  and  he 
alone  has  been  Leo's  Secretary  of  State  since  1878, 
and  that  if  the  present  state  of  religion  in  France 
is  one  of  his  failures,  then  the  present  position  of 
the  Papacy  in  Germany,  in  Spain,  in  Austria,  in 
England,  is  also  his  success.  That  he  should  retire 
and  name  Cardinal  Ferrata  as  his  successor  is,  as 
it   were,    to    suggest    that    Mr   Chamberlain    should 


32  ITALY   OF  TO-DAY 

resign  and  name  Mr  Jesse  Collings  to  reign  in  his 
stead,  so  though  the  voice  were  that  of  Jesse,  the 
words  would  still,  as  before,  be  Joseph's.  And  to 
those  who  watch  events  with  some  attention  and 
are  not  at  the  mercy  of  the  first  wind  of  rumour 
that  blows  from  the  Quirinal  or  even  from  less  hostile 
quarters,  it  appears  certain  that  should  the  Pope  die 
to-day  or  very  shortly,  his  successor  would  be  either 
Cardinal  Seranno  Vannutelli  or  Cardinal  Prince 
Rampolla  del  Tindaro.  Yet  there  is  and  always 
must  be  a  great  uncertainty  as  to  the  result  of  any 
election,  for  the  Pope  is  elected  by  a  majority  and 
not  by  the  unanimous  vote  of  the  Conclave. 

The  Cardinal  Prince  Rampolla  del  Tindaro  was 
born  in  Sicily.  He  is  of  all  men  the  most  tactful, 
ever  ready  to  annihilate  himself  if  thereby  he  may 
gain  an  advantage.  In  his  manner  ordinarily  he 
is  quiet,  yet  he  is  capable  of  the  most  majestical 
emotions.  Thus  at  Mass  he  surpasses  himself,  for 
he  is  tactful  enough  to  know  that  he  that  humbleth 
himself  shall  be  exalted.  He  is  said  to  have  the 
gift  of  tears,  and  though  he  may  forget  that  he  is 
of  the  South  it  is  impossible  for  others  to  do  so. 
His  supreme  worth,  at  least  one  may  suppose  in  the 
eyes  of  Leo  XIII.,  is  that  he  is,  or  seems  to  be, 
content  to  carry  out  the  ideas  of  the  Pope  without 
leavening  them  in  the  process.  Thus  if  it  is  true 
that  it  is  in  France  that  the  chief,  it  may  be  the 
only,  failure  of  the  papal  policy  is  seen,  it  is  Leo's 
policy,   not   Rampolla's,  that   has  been   unfortunate ; 


IL   PAPA-RE  33 

yet  Rampolla  continues  to  bear  the  burden  not  un- 
willingly, and  it  may  well  be  that  the  chief  cause 
of  the  failure  in  France  is  to  be  found  neither  in 
the  policy  itself  nor  in  the  methods  by  which  it  was 
carried  out,  but  in  the  unfortunate  death  of  Lavi- 
gerie,  who  was  really  a  great  man  and  not  a  mere 
reactionary  like  Cardinal  Langenieux.  There  is 
more  beneath  the  struggle  in  France  than  appears 
at  first  sight,  into  which  it  is  impossible  to  enter 
here.  Yet  it  is  perhaps  not  altogether  unworthy  to 
point  out  that  Cardinal  Rampolla  has  made  friends 
of  the  cardinal  monks,  whose  votes  would  be,  one 
may  believe,  not  less  than  twelve.  In  spite  of  all 
this  it  is  not  usual  for  the  Secretary  of  State  to 
become  the  new  Pope,  and  so  after  all  it  may  be 
that  Rampolla  desires  some  new  post,  and  is  busy 
getting  himself  seemingly  disgraced  in  order  to 
mount  in  the  end  to  the  very  chair  of  St  Peter. 
For  if  St  Malachy  is  to  be  trusted,  the  title  of  the 
new  Pope  is  to  be  "  Ignis  ardens,"  which  some  would 
tell  you  will  suit  Rampolla  del  Tindaro  very  well. 

The  prophecies  of  St  Malachy  of  Armagh,  pub- 
lished for  the  first  time  in  Venice  in  1595,  by  Arnold 
Wion,  a  Flemish  Benedictine,  in  his  'Lignum  Vitse,' 
begin  with  Celestine  II.  in  1143,  and  consist  of  a 
roll  of  one  hundred  and  eleven  popes.  They  have 
never  been  looked  on  seriously  by  any  historian 
that  I  know  of,  yet  they  are  interesting  at  any  rate 
to  the  traveller  and  the  passer-by,  both  because  of 
their  extraordinary  fulfilment  in   many  instances  in 

o 


34  ITALY   OF   TO-DAY 

the  past,  and  because  they  allow  of  only  nine  suc- 
cessors to  the  present  Pope.  Leo  XIII.,  "  Lumen 
in  ccelo,"  is  the  one  hundred  and  second  pope  in 
St  Malachy's  roll ;  of  these  one  hundred  and  two 
dead  popes,  St  Malachy  named  Celestine  II.  (1143-44) 
"Ex  Castro  Tiberis "  —  "From  the  fortress  of  the 
Tiber" — and,  as  it  proved,  his  name  was  de  Castelli, 
he  had  a  fortress  in  his  "  coat,"  and  he  was  born 
in  the  city  of  Castello,  where  the  Tiber  rises  in 
Umbria. 

Again,  he  named  Lucius  II.  (1144-45)  "  Inimicus 
expulsus  "  —  "  The  enemy  chased  out  "  —  and  the 
Pope's  name  was  Caccianemico,  meaning  "chase 
enemy." 

Again,  Eugene  III.  (1145-53),  "Ex  magnitudine 
montis  " — "From  the  greatness  of  a  mountain" — he 
was  born  in  the  castle  of  Grammonte. 

Again,  Adrian  IV.,  the  Englishman  (1154-59). 
"  De  rure  Albo,"  he  called  him.  Adrian  was  born 
at,  and  was  Bishop  of,  St  Alban's. 

But  it  will  be  said,  All  these  popes  lived  about  the 
time  of  St  Malachy  himself  (1095-1148) ;  what  proof 
is  there  that  these  are  not  prophecies  after  the  event  ? 
Of  course  there  is  no  proof.  But  I  will  give  a  few 
instances  of  St  Malachy's  prophetic  gift  in  the  names 
of  some  of  the  popes  who  reigned  after  the  date 
of  the  publication  of  the  prophecy  by  Arnold  Wion 
in  1595 ;  so  that  whatever  one  may  think  of  the 
inspiration  of  St  Malachy, — and  there  is  no  necessity 
to  believe  in  it  that  ever  I  heard  of,  should  one  pre- 


IL   PAPA-RE  35 

fer  to  remain  incredulous, — it  will  be  seen  that  it 
was  at  any  rate  manifestly  impossible  for  these 
prophecies  to  have  been  spoken  after  the  event. 

Of  Innocent  XII.,  who  reigned  (1691-1700)  a 
hundred  years  after  Wion's  publication,  St  Malachy 
says,  "  Rastrum  in  porta" — "The  rake  at  the  door." 
He  was  of  Rastello  (the  rake)  at  the  very  gates  of 
Naples.  Pius  VI.  (1775-1799),  "  Peregrinus  Aposto- 
licus  "  —  "The  apostolic  pilgrim"  or  "wanderer"; 
he  was  carried  to  Siena  on  his  refusal  to  surrender 
the  temporal  power,  thence  to  the  Certosa,  and 
thence  to  Grenoble,  and  at  last  to  Vallence,  where 
he  died. 

Pius  VII.  (1800-23),  "  Aquila  rapax  " — "The  grasp- 
ing eagle."  When  it  is  remembered  that  Napoleon 
Buonaparte  was  then  at  the  height  of  his  power, 
and  that  he  brought  the  Pope  to  Paris,  the  inter- 
pretation is  easy.  So  we  come  down  to  our  own 
day,  to  Pius  IX.,  "Crux  de  Cruce "  —  "The  Cross 
from  a  cross" — who  reigned  through  all  the  troub- 
lous times  of  '48,  '60,  and  '70 ;  who  saw  the  tem- 
poral power  once  more  stolen  from  the  Church ; 
whose  cross  came  truly  from  the  cross  of  Savoy, 
whose  device,  to  be  found  on  every  match-box  or 
packet  of  bad  cigarettes,  is  a  cross  argent. 

I  have  already  spoken  of  the  title  of  Leo  XIII., 
but  there  are  still  nine  popes  and  no  more,  according 
to  St  Malachy,  v\ho  are  to  sit  on  St  Peter's  throne. 
First  he  comes  called  "Ignis  ardens "  —  "Burning 
fire,"    then    "  Religio    depopolata,"    then   "Fides  in- 


36  ITALY   OF   TO-DAY 

trepida,"  then  "  Pastor  angelicus,"  then  "  Pastor 
et  Nauta,"  which  some  believing  soul  has  thought 
points  to  an  American  Pope,  then  "Flos  florum," 
then  "  De  meditate  lunae,"  then  "  De  labore  solis," 
then  "Gloria  Olivse," —  and  so  St  Malachy  says 
during  the  last  tyranny  and  persecution  the  Roman 
Peter  shall  feed  the  sheep.  "  In  persecutione  ex- 
trema  Sanctse  Romanse  Ecclesise  sedebit  Petrus 
Romanus  qui  pascet  oves  in  multis  tribulationibus 
quibus  transactis,  Civitatis  Septicollis  disuetur,  et 
Judex  tremendus  judicabit  populum." 

While  claiming  that  there  is  no  little  interest 
in  this  ancient  Irish  prophecy,  I  do  not  for  a  moment 
suggest  that  there  is  any  real  reason  to  believe  it 
other  than  that  of  the  pleasure  one  may  find  on 
a  holiday  or  a  pilgrimage  in  so  old  and  precious 
a  land  in  the  idlest  words  spoken  concerning  it  by 
one  who  loved  it  well.  There  are  very  many  of 
the  prophecies  to  which  it  seems  impossible  to  find 
any  interpretation.  Thus  Gregory  XVI.  (1832-46) 
is  named  "  De  Balneis  Etruriae," — "  From  the  baths 
of  Tuscany" — but  he  was  a  Lombard.  Pius  VIII. 
(1829-31)  is  named  "  Vir  Religiosus  " — "  A  Religious  ': 
— but  he  was  nothing  of  the  sort.  So  it  will  not  do 
for  united  Italy  or  any  other  enemy  of  the  Papacy 
to  depend  too  much  on  St  Malachy  and  his  "nine 
more  popes,"  which  by  the  year  2000  would  bring 
the  Papacy  to  an  end. 

Founded  as  it  is  on  most  ancient  custom,  the  papal 
Conclave   has   in   the    course    of    centuries    greatly 


IL   PAPA-RE  37 

changed.  The  election  of  a  Pope  was  at  one  time 
at  the  hands  of  the  clergy  and  the  people  and  the 
soldiers  of  the  city  of  Rome ;  it  is  now  at  the  hands 
of  the  College  of  Cardinals,  a  body  of  seventy  men, 
when  complete,  which  is  hardly  ever  the  case.  The 
struggle  for  the  independence  of  the  Papal  Court, 
and  of  the  right  of  election,  from  any  tyranny  of 
emperor  or  king  in  Rome  or  Germany  or  Byzantium, 
is  certainly  as  old  as  the  year  483,  when  the  election 
was  forbidden  "  without  the  co  -  operation  of  the 
king's  plenipotentiary,"  a  decree  annulled  by  a  synod 
of  Pope  Symacchus  in  502. 

To-day  too,  it  would  seem,  we  are  to  witness 
a  like  struggle.  Certainly  in  1878  Crispi  managed 
that  the  Conclave  should  be  undisturbed,  but  Italy 
was  not  so  old  then.  What  guarantee  beyond  the 
already  broken  and  evaded  "  Law  of  Guarantees " 
has  the  Church  that  in  the  future  she  will  be  per- 
mitted by  an  already  jealous  and  frightened  Govern- 
ment to  choose  her  visible  Head  ?  None,  I  think. 
For  in  case  of  disturbance  or  riot  within  the  city  or 
the  kingdom,  the  Government  would  undoubtedly 
seize  the  opportunity  to  remove  the  cause  of  it. 
And  if  that  cause  were  the  length  of  an  election 
or  some  other  similar  reason  within  the  Conclave, 
Italy  might  think  it  a  fortunate  occasion  in  which 
to  interfere,  and  maybe  elect  an  antipope  herself 
almost  without  outside  interference  if  the  Powers 
were  already  occupied  in  China  or  America  or 
elsewhere. 


38  ITALY   OF   TO-DAY 

On  the  death  of  any  Pope  all  cardinals  are  sum- 
moned to  a  Conclave  to  elect  a  successor,  ten  days 
being  allowed  to  go  by  before  the  Conclave  meets. 
This  practically  annuls  the  votes  of  any  American 
cardinals,  who  would  find  it  difficult  to  come  to 
Rome  within  the  time.  It  is  within  these  ten  days 
that  the  funeral  of  the  late  Pope  takes  place,  and  he 
is  buried  temporarily  in  St  Peter's  amid  innumerable 
ceremonials,  pageants,  traditions,  glories,  and  pray- 
ers, under  the  splendid  and  tremendous  phrases  of 
the  Church.  Surrounded  by  the  inscrutable  mystery 
and  faith  of  the  plain  chant  the  old  Pope  is  carried 
to  his  temporary  resting-place,  while  in  his  funeral 
train  surge  the  vastest  ambitions  of  the  world,  the 
passions  that  have  been  blowing  in  the  hearts  of  men 
for  it  may  be  a  generation,  the  greed  and  envy  and 
despair  of  all  his  ministers,  the  fears  or  sorrows  of 
his  friends,  the  curiosity  of  surprised  ambassadors, 
the  weak  tears  of  those  who  weep  because  of  the 
beauty  of  the  antique  words  or  the  magnificence  of 
the  rise  and  fall  of  the  chant,  or  the  splendour  of  the 
tapers.  Outside,  a  world  waits  chiefly  expectant. 
So  few  to  weep,  for  he  was  the  Father  of  us  all  and 
therefore  had  no  children ;  so  many  to  follow,  for 
that  he  was  a  king  and  has  left  a  great  kingdom  and 
no  man  knows  who  will  wear  his  crown. 

The  Sacred  College  rules  the  Church  when  the 
pope  dies  till  his  successor  is  elected,  and  so  the 
Cardinal  Camerlengo  is  for  the  time  the  visible  Head 
of  the  Church.     It  is  from  him  that  the  Swiss  Guard 


IL   PAPA-RE  39 

will  take  their  orders,   and  it  is  for  him  in  case   of 
need  they  will  die. 

Of  the  Conclave  itself  a  very  excellent  account  will 
be  found  in  'John  Inglesant,'  by  Mr  J.  H.  Short- 
house,  a  book  that  has  caught  more  of  the  spirit  of 
Italy  than  any  other  I  know  of.  It  is  useless  for 
me  to  describe  again  a  ceremonial  told  once  for  all 
in  so  well  known  a  book. 

As  to  Pope  Leo  XIII.,  he  was  born  at  Carpineti, 
near  Segni  in  the  Volscian  Hills,  in  1810,  and  christ- 
ened Joachim  Vincent ;  he  bears  the  hereditary  title 
of  Conte,  and  comes  of  a  noble  family  of  Siena  in 
Tuscany.  Those  who  have  cared  to  find  the  old 
house  in  the  mountains  where  he  was  born  will  re- 
member the  portraits  of  his  father  and  mother,  still 
hanging  on  the  walls.  His  likeness  to  his  father  is 
extraordinary.  Of  his  face  it  is  impossible  to  speak. 
Only  those  who  have  seen  him  will  understand  me 
when  I  say  that,  like  St  Dominic,  there  is  a  "certain 
radiance  "  about  him,  so  that  he  seems  to  have  been 
carved  from  the  whitest  and  most  delicate  marble, 
within  which  some  sun  is  imprisoned  but  shining. 

That  it  is  extremely  difficult  to  decide  whether  the 
grievances  that  he  has  always  stated  so  openly  are 
really  such,  or  whether  a  people  in  its  struggle  for 
liberty  and  unity  is  justified  in  robbing  both  him  and 
the  Church,  I  shall  be  the  first  to  admit.  Nor,  I 
hope,  will  any  one  quarrel  with  me  for  being  of  the 
former  opinion.  To  me  it  seems  clear  that  the  Popes 
had  been  practically  undisputed  masters  of  Rome  for 


40  ITALY   OF   TO-DAY 

hundreds  of  years,  that  Mazzini  and  Garibaldi  desired 
not  a  kingdom  but  a  republic,  that  for  ten  years  Flor- 
ence was  the  very  excellent  and  convenient  capital 
of  United  Italy.  To  others  these  things  go  for 
nothing.  Their  devotion  to  the  undeniably  noble 
desires  and  passions  of  the  Italian  people  for  unity 
sweep  even  justice  into  that  sea  of  things  forgot 
where  the  tragedy  of  our  own  House  of  Stuart  lies. 
But  if  it  is  right  for  a  mass  of  men,  or  the  majority 
of  individuals  of  which  a  nation  is  made  up,  or  even 
an  entire  people,  to  rob  another  people,  or  an  institu- 
tion, or  even  a  single  person,  though  it  be  for  the 
good  of  all  concerned ;  then  it  is  equally  right  for  a 
tyrant  to  rob  and  imprison  his  people  if  it  be  for  their 
ultimate  good.  To  my  own  countrymen,  to  whom 
nothing  that  is  not  practical  appeals,  this  argument 
goes  for  nothing.  To  more  thoughtful  people,  such 
as  the  Italians,  it  is  an  ever-recurring  question.  And 
it  is  not  in  Italy  alone  that  it  is  the  supreme  quarrel 
of  all,  but,  as  is  becoming  clearer  every  day,  in  every 
country  in  the  civilised  world.  May  a  nation  do  evil, 
scout  justice,  rob,  murder,  and  slay  in  order  that  the 
believed  happiness  of  the  crowd  may  by  chance  be 
attained  ?  For  myself  I  have  answered  this  question 
in  the  negative — but  I  shall  not  quarrel  with  you  for 
thinking  me  a  fooi. 


IV. 


THE   HOUSE   OF   SAVOY. 

THE  murder  of  King  Humbert,  a  tragedy  all  the 
more  profound  in  that  he  perhaps  of  all  men 
concerned  in  the  government  of  his  country  so  little 
deserved  a  vengeance  so  brutal,  has  perhaps  awakened 
Italy.  For  his  death  roused  the  indignation  not  of 
the  outer  world  alone,  but  of  Italy  too ;  even  in 
England  one  began  to  read  in  the  better  informed 
and  more  intelligent  newspapers  that  the  Italian 
Government  was  greatly  to  blame,  and  at  last  the 
truth  of  twenty  years  seemed  almost  to  have  got 
itself  expressed  in  our  old  and  dear  land — viz.,  that 
the  Government  of  Italy  was  unspeakably  corrupt, 
impotent  for  good,  a  great  wound  from  which  Italy 
was  bleeding  to  death.  During  the  last  twenty  years 
the  Government  could  not  have  done  worse ;  indeed 
there  is  not  one  single  thing  in  which  they  have 
done  well ;  nor  can  this  be  gainsaid.  I  am  not 
concerned  to  deny  that  while  Italy  is  anxious  to 
compare  herself  with  the  most  successful  nations, 
to    her    own     unavoidable    discomfort,    one    should 


42  ITALY   OF   TO-DAY 

rather  compare  her  present  conditions  with  her 
past  just  before  that  unification — indeed  I  am  anxious 
to  agree  in  any  such  contention.  It  is  in  such  a 
comparison  that  one  will  find  a  great  encourage- 
ment to  believe  in  her  future.  For  if  her  present 
state  is  not  so  splendid,  nor  so  successful,  as  that 
of  her  neighbours  and  allies,  she  is,  I  firmly  believe, 
at  least  on  the  road  to  a  better  world  than  that 
she  has  left ;  and  although  the  crowd  is  not  perhaps 
so  happy  or  so  free  from  taxation  in  Tuscany  or 
Umbria,  for  instance,  as  in  the  old  days  a  hundred 
years  ago,  still  a  great  and  bright  future  is  now  pos- 
sible to  Italia  la  Nuova,  that  was  impossible  to  the 
geographical  expression  that  travellers  and  artists 
and  historians  called  Italy  before  i860.  So  though 
it  is  into  an  Eldorado  of  the  spirit  at  least  that 
you  will  come  over  the  Alps  and  along  the  shores 
of  that  old  and  great  sea,  it  is  into  a  very  human 
land,  that  democracy  has  as  yet  had  scarcely  time 
to  soil  with  its  desire  for  uniformity.  Theft,  adultery, 
and  murder  flourish  as  with  us.  Nor  are  the  moun- 
tains as  yet  scarred  with  railways,  nor  quite  all  of 
the  monasteries  turned  into  barracks.  A  poor  land 
rich  in  memories  the  superficial  traveller  will  remark. 
It  is  scarcely  the  whole  truth.  There  is  even  a  small 
surplus  in  the  budgets  at  present ;  and  there  are 
other  things.  It  is  in  leaders  that  Italy  is  unfor- 
tunately still  so  poor.  The  House  of  Savoy  has  not 
risen  to  the  occasion.  Victor  Emmanuel,  popular 
though  he  was,  was  a  soldier,  not  a  statesman.     King 


THE    HOUSE   OF   SAVOY  43 

Humbert,  lately  so  foully  murdered,  had  been  be- 
wildered since  the  day  of  his  proclamation ;  he  was 
the  last  man  in  the  world  to  hold  the  reins  of  the 
Government  that  was  thrust  upon  him.  A  good 
man,  with  a  kind  heart,  utterly  fearless  too,  he  looked 
on  the  Chamber  of  Deputies  as  the  conjuring-box 
from  which  his  father  had  his  throne. 

The  ridiculous  collection  of  faddists,  anarchists, 
socialists,  irreligious  maniacs,  and  fools  that  make 
up  that  extraordinary  camera,  he  regarded  as  the 
nation.  Whilst  others  more  bold  or  credulous  than 
he  have  believed  that  God  has  given  them  their 
kingdoms,  that  they  rule  by  His  will,  and  are  to 
Him  accountable,  he  for  his  sins,  or  those  of  others, 
knew  he  ruled  "by  the  will  of  the  people."  He 
showed,  full  of  faith  as  he  was,  almost  an  emotional 
interest  in  his  Chamber  of  Deputies :  it  is  difficult 
to  understand,  when  we  remember  that  shortly  be- 
fore his  murder,  in  the  month  of  April  in  the  year 
1900,  the  obstruction  of  public  business  by  the  mere 
noise  of  that  gathering  was  to  be  ended  by  the  calling 
in  of  the  carabineers.  In  May,  after  the  prorogation 
and  the  reassembling  of  the  Chamber,  at  a  suggest- 
ion of  the  suppression  of  an  obstruction  which,  as 
an  English  paper  said  at  the  time,  "  puts  Berlin  and 
Vienna  and  the  simple  tactics  of  Irish  members 
quite  in  the  shade,"  the  Left  rose,  seventy  of  them, 
and  began  to  sing  the  Marseillaise  and  Garibaldi's 
Hymn,  using  "their  desks  as  drums  and  their  fists 
as  drumsticks."      Nor  were  they  content  w'th  this, 


44  ITALY   OF   TO-DAY 

but  began  to  sing  "  The  Socialist  '  Inno  dei  Lavor- 
atori,'  a  song  forbid  by  law." 

After  these  shameful  and  ridiculous  tactics  had 
amused  a  cynical  world  for  long  enough,  King 
Humbert  dissolved  Parliament,  instead  of  going 
down  to  the  House  with  a  whip,  as  Herodotus  tells 
us  in  the  beginning  of  the  book  of  Melpomene  the 
Scythians  did  when,  on  returning  to  their  country 
after  ruling  for  many  years  in  Upper  Asia,  they 
found  that  their  slaves  had  seized  their  country  and 
their  women. 

And  amid  all  that  vulgar  hurly-burly,  in  all  the 
noise  and  despair  of  the  place-seeking  majority,  in 
all  the  noise  and  hatred  of  the  "  constitutional 
Opposition  "  that  under  the  chivalrous  and  valiant 
Signor  Giolitti  had  made  common  cause  with  those 
who  shouted  treason,  there  was  one  man  who  might 
have  saved  the  honour  and  perhaps  the  soul  of  his 
country,  but  he  hesitated — I  mean  the  king.  If  he 
was  King  of  Italy — if  Italy  was  his  kingdom — why 
did  he  not  save  her  from  those  who  were  despoiling 
her  ?  Why  did  he  not  come  as  Odysseus  came,  and 
stretch  the  mighty  bow  and  slay  these  suitors,  the 
devourers  of  man's  substance,  ere  thev  could  com- 
pletely  slay  the  beautiful  land  he  loved,  and  at  last 
even  himself  also,  at  Monza  in  the  north ;  or  if  in 
the  multitude  of  petty  vulgarities  that  surrounded 
him,  amid  the  hideous  obscenity  of  modern  vandalism, 
he  dared  not  think  of  great  Odysseus,  why  did  he  not 
recall  the  splendid  words  of  his  own  father,  Victor 


THE    HOUSE   OF   SAVOY  45 

Emmanuel,  who  in  1849  dissolved  his  Parliament 
that  had  become  unruly,  and  from  Moncalieri 
spoke  in  words  that  cut  like  little  whips  ?  "  What 
fruit,"  cried  he,  "  have  my  words  obtained  ?  Acts 
unfriendly  to  my  crown,  the  idiotic  hostility  of  the 
Opposition,  and  encroachments  on  my  prerogative 
secured  to  me  by  law.  I  will  call  the  Chamber 
severely  to  account  for  its  actions.  I  have  promised 
to  save  my  nation  from  the  tyranny  of  parties,  what- 
ever men  they  be  who  lead  or  compose  them.  I 
have  fulfilled  my  oath  by  dissolving  a  Parliament 
that  had  become  impossible."  Why  was  it  King 
Humbert  never  spoke  words  like  these  to  the  vile 
crew  of  vampires  that  were  sucking  his  country  dry  ? 
Can  it  be  that  he  had  forgotten  them  ?  or,  as  he 
looked  from  the  great  windows  of  the  Quirinal  down 
over  Rome,  and  saw  far  away  across  the  mighty  city 
smouldering  in  the  sunset,  the  everlasting  dome  of 
St  Peter's  Church,  and  the  mighty  angel  over  the 
castle  of  Sant'  Angelo,  did  his  heart  accuse  him  of 
the  sins  of  his  ancestors  of  which  he  had  not  yet 
purged  himself,  and  as  he  remembered  that  mighty 
theft,  did  he  fear  that  the  Romans — nay,  the  whole 
world — might  remember  it  too,  and  so  fear  also  his 
people,  who  were  his  accomplices  in  that  immortal 
crime  ?  What  thoughts  came  to  him  out  of  that 
old  city  as  he  gazed  over  her  from  his  palace  on  the 
hill  we  can  never  know,  but  be  sure  they  were  not 
always  joyful  or  inspiring. 

So  he  never  dared  to  save  his  country,  unless  by 


46  ITALY   OF  TO-DAY 

his  terrible  death  he  has  shown  her  the  way  she  is 
going.  He  was  the  first  king  of  his  House  to  fall 
under  the  hand  of  the  murderer.  And  in  contem- 
plating the  cowardly  deed,  one  is  moved  more  by 
its  significance,  at  least  at  this  distance  of  time, 
than  by  its  tragedy.  He  was  murdered  because  he 
was  a  king  alter  the  modern  pattern,  because  he 
reigned  but  never  ruled.  It  was  his  own  child 
killed  him — one  of  those  who  made  him  and  his 
father  what  they  were,  giving  them,  not  without 
exacting  toll  as  we  have  seen,  stolen  goods.  His 
very  chivalry,  his  gallant  courage,  his  fearlessness, 
his  belief  in  his  people,  were  the  things  that  led 
him  into  danger.  There  is  no  honour  among  thieves, 
nor  could  he  play  his  part.  After  all,  the  temptation 
was  too  great ;  who  could  have  withstood  it,  after 
having  listened  to  the  words  of  Cavour  and  the 
marvellous  dreams  of  Mazzini  ?  He,  like  his  an- 
cestors, was  a  dreamer  from  the  mountains ;  he 
should  have  died  with  a  grey  sword  in  his  right 
hand,  not  with  a  trumpery  crown  in  his  fingers 
that  he  was  striving  not  to  break.  So  with  this 
brittle  ring  of  glass  ever  in  his  keeping,  he  submitted 
himself,  in  order  to  preserve  it,  to  the  vile  company 
of  atheist  Ministers,  republican  and  anarchist  depu- 
ties, who  ended  by  almost  persuading  him  they  were 
"  the  country,"  to  the  contamination  of  all  the 
sharpers  of  Sicily  and  the  south,  to  the  vulgar  con- 
versation of  the  fraudulent  grocers  and  bankers  of 
the   north,    and    to   the   insolent   tactics   of  the  ad- 


THE   HOUSE   OF   SAVOY  47 

venturer.  And  when  he  died  one  was  really  glad 
for  him.  He  was  a  brave  man  in  a  terrible  situation  ; 
he  tried  to  serve  well  a  herd  of  swine  that  he  mistook 
for  his  subjects.  Let  us  be  glad  for  him,  for  he  is 
now  with  his  ancestors,  and  sleeps  well. 

King  Humbert's  death  was  received  with  extraor- 
dinary quietness  by  the  Italian  people.  Not  even 
the  Socialists  dared  to  say  a  word.  There  remains 
the  question  of  his  successor.  Where  King  Humbert, 
good  man  though  he  was,  failed,  will  his  son  succeed  ? 
That  it  is  impossible  to  say.  Victor  Emmanuel  III. 
is  really,  even  now  after  two  years  of  his  reign  have 
passed,  an  unknown  quantity.  His  first  speech  from 
the  throne  was  certainly  most  splendid.  Some  of  his 
words  seemed  to  have  an  echo  of  his  grandfather's 
speech  of  1849 — since  then  he  has  been  for  the  most 
part  silent. 

A  writer  in  the  '  Saturday  Review '  for  August  4, 
1900,  ventured  to  say  of  him  :  "  As  Prince  of  Naples, 
he  has  been  a  complete  enigma,  and  never  perhaps 
did  any  nation  know  so  little  of  its  sovereign's  heir- 
apparent.  He  is  known  to  be  an  efficient  soldier 
with  a  turn  for  strategy  ;  he  is  a  good  shot,  a  fair 
horseman,  a  constant  yachtsman ;  his  hobby  is 
numismatics,  and  he  is  a  good  herald  and  geneal- 
ogist. In  infancy  and  boyhood  his  health  was  weak, 
hence  perhaps  the  vague  general  impression  that  he 
is  also  weak  in  character.  There  are  those  who 
think  he  will  prove  even  more  of  a  figurehead  than 
his  unfortunate   father ;    and    again    there    are    those 


48  ITALY   OF  TO-DAY 

who  think  that  he  is  a  '  dark  horse '  and  will  do 
strange  and  great  things  and  even  things  autocratic." 
It  may  be  possible  that  this  enthusiastic  athlete  and 
sportsman  will  prove  the  deliverer  Italy  has  wished 
for  so  long,  but  I  think  it  were  too  much  to  be  cer- 
tain of  it  as  yet.  As  I  have  ventured  to  say  in  a 
former  chapter,  absolutely  the  first  work  any  really 
great  statesman  or  king  will  set  himself  will  be  a 
reconciliation  with  the  Church ;  that  accomplished, 
there  is  no  knowing  to  what  splendour  Italy  might 
not  advance.  But  wanting  that  internal  peace  with- 
out which  no  country  can  for  long  live,  her  outlook 
is  dark  indeed.  It  is  useless  for  her  to  dream  of 
colonial  enterprise  or  of  authority  and  place  in  the 
councils  of  Europe,  or  even  in  those  of  the  Triple 
Alliance,  if  she  is  divided  in  her  allegiance  within  her 
own  borders.  It  is,  then,  a  man  with  sufficient 
imagination,  sufficient  energy,  and  sufficient  daring 
Italy  needs,  and  if  that  man  should  indeed  prove  to 
be  her  king,  then  is  she  twice  blest. 

And  this  King  Victor  Emmanuel  III.  about  whom 
Europe  is  so  curious,  should  find  in  the  lives  and 
legends  of  his  ancestors  an  inspiration  to  control  his 
will  and  inform  his  spirit  even  to  compass  such  great 
labours  as  are  so  plainly  set  before  him.  He  is  the 
tenth  king  of  his  house,  which  has  given  more  than 
one  pope  to  Christendom,  has  produced  saints, 
warriors,  statesmen,  and  cardinals  ;  and  as  may  also 
be  pointed  out,  kings  too,  surnamed  the  Great,  the 
Peaceful,  the  Warrior,  the  Hunter.     That  he  should 


THE    HOUSE   OF   SAVOY  49 

add  to  these  names  that  of  King  Victor  Emmanuel 
III.,  the  Saviour  of  his  country,  would  indeed  be  to 
fulfil  the  tradition  of  his  house.  When  he  spoke 
those  brave  and  fearless  words  to  his  first  Parlia- 
ment :  "  Unabashed  and  steadfast  I  ascend  the 
throne,  conscious  of  my  rights  and  of  my  duties  as 
king.  Let  Italy  have  faith  in  me  as  I  have  faith  in 
her  destinies,  and  no  human  force  shall  destroy  that 
which  with  such  self-sacrifice  my  fathers  built,"  can 
one  dare  to  believe  he  really  meant  what  he  said  ? 
Let  us  try  to  believe  it,  for  some  of  them  who  heard 
him,  knowing  so  well  the  state  of  that  beloved  land, 
were  not  ashamed  to  weep  and  to  cry  to  their  own 
hearts,  It  may  be,  oh  that  it  might  be,  that  the  Master 
has  come ! 

Since  then  there  has  been  for  the  most  part  silence. 
Yet  it  may  well  be  that  he  is  but  maturing  his  plans, 
or  waiting  the  appointed  hour  or  gathering  all  his 
strength,  so  that  his  mastery  may  be  only  more 
steadfast  in  the  end.  Our  age  was  supposed  to  have 
no  need  of  kings  so  short  a  time  ago,  yet  where  were 
England  without  her  Crown,  or  Germany  without 
her  Emperor,  or  Austria  without  her  double  Crown, 
or  Spain  without  her  beautiful  and  fearless  Regent  ? 
I  think,  indeed,  the  age  as  ever  is  against  sham  kings, 
but  against  real  kings  it  is  not,  nor  has  any  age  been 
so  since  the  beginning.  Thus  Italy,  simple  of  heart, 
left  to  the  bitter  mercies  of  her  professional  poli- 
ticians, is  in  the  position  of  Andromeda,  whom  may 
Perseus  her  prince  rescue  with  all  speed. 

D 


50  ITALY   OF   TO-DAY 

Looking  on  the  political  life  of  Italy  to-day,  one 
discovers  scarcely  anything  but  an  almost  inextricable 
confusion.  There  is  no  Centre  party  at  Montecitorio, 
and  the  Right  and  the  Left  have  become  useless  as 
names  for  parties  so  uncertain  in  their  allegiance  and 
in  their  policy  as  to  be  nothing  but  a  mass  of  inde- 
pendent and  inconsistent  votes.  Instead  of  Govern- 
ment and  Opposition,  as  in  a  country  so  indifferent 
to  ideas  as  England,  one  finds,  for  example,  that  Di 
Rudini  has  a  small  following,  Giolitti  the  shameless 
another,  Sonnino  another,  and  other  demagogues 
other  always  small  followings.  Each  of  these  little 
cliques  is  really  a  political  party,  with  a  more  or  less 
sound  or  unsound  programme  by  means  of  which  in 
most  cases  it  hopes  to  enrich  itself. 

As  to  a  Court  party,  there  is  no  such  phenomenon, 
happily,  and  it  is  there  that  the  King's  chief  power 
lies.  Neither  he  nor  his  father  have  stooped  to  trick 
and  plot  and  bribe,  and  so  happily  there  is  no  Royal- 
ist party.  For  nowadays  in  Italy,  since  the  death 
of  that  great  and  profound  thinker  to  whom  Italy 
owes  almost  all  she  has  of  stable  government  and 
life,  Count  Cavour,  a  politician  must  satisfy  the 
ridiculous  demands  of  some  half-a-dozen  parties  be- 
fore he  can  obtain  a  majority  in  this  unfortunate 
Chamber.  So  that  one  finds  that  though  one  has  a 
majority  to-day,  to-morrow  two  or  three  groups  will 
find  themselves  offended  and  will  consequently  vote 
against  the  rest  that  form  with  them  the  Govern- 
ment.    What  the  ruture  has  in  store  it  is  of  course 


THE   HOUSE   OF   SAVOY  51 

impossible  to  say  for  certain,  but  it  seems  to  me  (I 
write  in  all  humility  and  am  willing  to  take  correction 
from  others  who  are  better  acquainted  with  Italy 
than  myself)  that  all  these  groups  will  soon  be 
welded  into  two  great  parties,  the  Conservatives 
and  the  Socialists. 

I  speak  of  the  Socialists  elsewhere.  With  all 
their  work  and  enthusiasm  and  faith  I  doubt  if  they 
will  triumph  save  for  a  very  short  time.  It  may  be 
they  will  succeed  beyond  their  expectations  and 
precipitate  a  revolutionary  movement  that  will  border 
on,  if  it  will  not  actually  achieve,  civil  war.  But 
from  the  Conservatives,  if  they  are  wise,  great  things 
should  come.  A  wise  conservatism  will  be  eager 
to  grant  real  reform  where  it  is  needed,  and  it  is 
needed  in  many  things  in  Italy ;  and  if,  as  I  hope, 
the  Conservatives  will  urge  the  King  to  make  peace 
with  the  Vatican,  so  that  the  Pope  will  no  longer 
refuse  to  allow  good  Catholics  to  vote  at  the  elections, 
their  future  is  certain.  It  is  impossible  that  the 
Clerical  party  can  work  for  long  with  the  Socialists. 
The  Jesuits,  who,  one  is  told,  place  the  recovery  of 
the  temporal  power  for  the  Church  first  in  their 
programme,  may  work  —  and  I  for  one  am  inclined 
to  believe  that  others  beside  the  Jesuits  did  so  work 
at  Milan  in  1898  —  with  the  Socialists  so  far  as  to 
disturb  and  overthrow  the  present  form  of  govern- 
ment, for  in  the  end  that  is  the  Socialists'  aim,  but 
after  that  they  will  be  compelled  to  oppose  them 
and  fight  them  for  the  very   mastery  of  Italy.     But 


52  ITALY   OF   TO-DAY 

in  spite  of  the  prejudice  felt,  for  the  most  part  abroad, 
against  the  Clericals,  they  are  in  touch  with  the 
people  and  they  are,  if  only  for  their  own  sakes,  eager 
for  reform.  A  great  and  splendid  party  might  be 
formed  from  the  Conservatives  and  the  Clericals, 
if  they  could  produce  a  leader.  And  the  King  might 
rind  in  it  the  very  instrument  he  needs  to  begin  the 
work  of  organisation  and  reformation  that  must  be 
done,  and  done  without  much  more  delay. 

It  would  be  a  bright  day  for  Italy  should  the 
King  be  able  to  say— 

"The  wind  that  swells  my  sails 
Propels  ;  but  I  am  helmsman." 

As  things  are  now  one  sees  the  shameful  spectacle 
of  men  sacrificing  their  country  in  order  to  line 
their  own  pockets  or  to  realise  their  own  ambitions. 
Something  has  been  done,  not  much,  but  one  must 
make  the  most  of  it,  and  hope  it  is  only  a  pledge 
of  future  good  work.  An  Employers'  Liability  Act 
has  been  given  to  the  people,  and  what  Signor 
Villari,  an  excellent  judge  calis  '5an  incomplete 
Old  Age  Pensions  Act,'* 

But  in  all  this  sordid  business  one  figure  stands 
out  unsullied  by  party  strife  or  bank  scandal,  or 
misfortune — I  mean  the  King.  After  all,  he  is  Italy's 
forlorn  hope.  In  his  youth  still,  with  all  his  energy 
unimpaired,  married  to  a  princess  of  ancient  and 
strong  race,  who  may  well  be  to  him  the  great 
encourager,   it  is   to   him    Italy   turns   in    her   need, 


THE    HOUSE   OF   SAVOY  53 

unheeding  in  her  profound  expectation  the  ranting 
of  demagogues  and  the  snarling  of  fools.  Will  he 
rescue  her  from  her  danger  and  set  her  feet  upon 
the  rock,  will  he  dare  to  venture  so  far  as  to  make 
peace  with  the  Pope,  and  forgetting  the  late  years 
of  passion,  remember  the  deeds  of  his  fathers  and 
do  a  great  deed  to  save  a  great  people  from  ruin, 
and  be  ashamed  to  be  a  figurehead,  for  that  he  is 
indeed  a  king? 


V. 


THE    SOCIALISTS. 

IT  is  very  possible  that  the  immediate  future  of 
Italy  is  in  the  hands  of  the  Socialists,  and,  as 
I  believe,  it  is  certain  that  this  is  the  case  unless 
the  King  can  bring  himself  to  make  peace  with  the 
Vatican.  This,  to  my  mind,  is  a  pity,  chiefly  because 
though  Socialism  may  triumph  for  a  time,  it  will  in- 
evitably fail  to  satisfy  Italian  ambition,  and  because 
many  useful  and  splendid  things  must  fall  to  build  its 
very  foundations,  among  which  is  the  new  kingdom 
Italy  possessed  herself  of  at  such  great  cost  so  short 
a  time  ago.  It  is  not  that  one  has  any  ridiculous 
dislike  for  Socialism  as  a  theory,  but  that  even  as  a 
theory  one  profoundly  distrusts  its  very  postulates 
and  axioms.  And  coming  to  close  quarters  with  its 
special  manifestation  of  itself  in  Italy,  one  finds  that 
it  proposes  to  deal  with  perhaps  the  most  individualist 
people  in  Europe  as  though  they  were  as  capable  of 
combined  thought  and  action  as  are  the  French  or 
even  the  Germans.  It  needs  but  little  reflection  to 
enable  one  to  see  how  very  much  easier,  had  they 


THE   SOCIALISTS  55 

been  so,  the  unification  of  Italy  would  have  been  to 
accomplish,  instead  of  the  almost  impossible  task  it 
has  proved.  Yet  after  one  has  satisfied  himself  of 
the  inevitable  failure  of  Socialism  in  the  end  to  bring 
happiness  to  this  land,  he  has  to  acknowledge  its  gift 
of  faith  in  itself  and  in  its  mission,  a  gift  that  every 
other  political  party  is  without ;  but  lacking  it,  how 
can  they  hope  to  accomplish  anything.  It  is  indeed 
one  of  the  most  valuable  emotions  that  the  Clericals 
would  bring  to  the  Conservatives,  if  ever  there  might 
be  peace,  in  which  case  I  think  Socialism  would  be 
defeated  almost  before  the  inevitable  battle.  But  at 
present  Socialism  alone  seems  to  have  faith  in  its 
politics — nor  does  it  hesitate  to  promise  great  things, 
nor  is  it  slow  to  convince  the  Italians  that  it  has 
happiness  and  prosperity  to  give. 

The  "  minimum  programme "  of  the  Socialists  is 
somewhat  as  follows :  First,  universal  suffrage ;  a 
dangerous  gift  when  one  remembers  that,  so  late  as 
1896,  more  than  thirty-six  males  even  in  every  hun- 
dred could  not  read.  But  the  Socialist  idea  of  uni- 
versal suffrage  is  to  include  both  men  and  women, 
so  that  the  percentage  of  illiterates  would  be  much 
higher.  Second,  the  Socialists  place  the  Referendum, 
a  proposal  open  to  the  same  objection.  Third,  the 
payment  of  members  of  Parliament  and  municipal 
councillors,  a  proposal  which,  considering  the  already 
immense  number  of  professional  politicians,  mounte- 
banks who  earn  their  living  out  of  politics  by  all  sorts 
of  extraordinary  ways  and  startling  contrivance,  is,  I 


56  ITALY   OF   TO-DAY 

think,  scarcely  to  be  desired,  since  it  would  inevitably 
increase  this  army  of  vultures.  Fourth,  complete 
liberty  of  the  press,  freedom  of  speech  and  public 
meeting  —  a  proposal  which  probably  a  wise  con- 
servatism would  be  anxious  to  agree  to  if  not  to 
propose,  but  one  that  the  Socialists  have  not  prac- 
tised in  the  past  and  would  possibly  be  compelled  to 
forget  in  the  future.  Fifth,  an  eight  hours'  day  and 
minimum  wage.  Sixth,  the  abolition  of  conscription 
and  the  substitution  of  an  army  on  the  pattern  of  the 
Swiss  Militia — a  wise  proposal,  I  think.  Seventh,  a 
progressive  income-tax,  also  a  wise  and  unobjec- 
tionable idea.  But,  as  Signor  Villari  has  recently 
pointed  out,  this  cannot  be  all.  When  King  Hum- 
bert passed  through  Milan  on  his  way  to  death,  the 
Socialist  municipality  refused  to  greet  him ;  after 
the  murder  they  refused  to  take  any  part  whatsoever 
in  the  commemoration.  "  In  June  1901,"  says  the 
same  writer,  "  the  Socialist  leaders,  especially  Signor 
Ferri,  made  speech  after  speech  in  Parliament  in 
which  they  declared  themselves  unequivocally  hostile 
to  the  Monarchy  as  one  of  the  chief  obstacles  in  the 
way  of  the  realisation  of  their  objects."  Just  there, 
I  think,  lies  the  real  danger ;  for  if  it  is  difficult  to 
hold  Italy  together  under  a  king,  it  will  be  impossible 
to  do  so  under  a  republic ;  especially  with  the  ever- 
present  claim  of  the  Papacy  to  temporal  power,  which 
would  be  much  more  hopeful  under  a  republic  than 
under  a  king,  because  a  republic,  as  in  France  has 
been   proved   over   and   over   again,  is  always  more 


THE   SOCIALISTS  57 

subject  to  attack,  more  sensitive  of  a  passing  fury 
or  dissatisfaction,  than  a  kingdom. 

It  was  the  wisdom  of  Cavour  that  made  the  mag- 
nificent dreams  of  Mazzini  and  Garibaldi  reality. 
How  would  a  republic  have  been  able  to  withstand 
the  defeat  at  Adowa  or  the  bank  scandals  ?  It  was 
the  knowledge  that  the  King,  outside  and  above  party 
government  as  he  is,  had  no  hand  in  all  that  villainy, 
was  as  innocent  of  it  as  the  mass  of  his  people,  for 
whom  he  truly  stands,  that  held  Italy  back  from 
some  frightful  revolution.  A  republic  could  never 
have  stood  so  utterly  beyond  the  suspicion  of  even 
the  most  hostile  as  the  King  did,  for  the  very  men 
who  were  most  concerned  would  inevitably  have  been 
the  very  republic  herself. 

But  in  writing  of  Socialism  in  Italy  it  is  in  regard 
to  the  land  that  its  plans  are  most  far  reaching.  In 
Sicily,  where  I  was  last  winter,  I  saw  the  most  appal- 
ling misery  that  I  have  ever  witnessed  in  any  land. 
The  peasantry  were  in  reality  starving,  the  landlord 
possibly  an  absentee  in  possession  of  the  land  that 
the  peasants  at  least  believed  was  by  right  their  own. 
It  is  there  that  this  side  of  the  Socialist  programme 
has  most  readily  found  acceptance.  For  though  the 
Socialist  will  tell  you  that  he  does  not  aim  at  a  forced 
division  of  property,  the  people  believe  he  does ;  and 
should  the  Socialist  obtain  the  government,  it  is  what 
the  people  believe  is  his  idea,  and  not  what  it  might 
once  have  been,  that  will  of  necessity  happen.  The 
peasant  wants    naturally  to   be   a  landlord,  because 


58  ITALY   OF  TO-DAY 

he  thinks  that  the  landlord  is  a  great  man,  who  can 
have  everything  it  is  possible  to  wish  for,  who  never 
felt  hungry  in  his  life,  and  to  whom  everybody  is 
respectful.  So  individualist  is  he  that  any  idea  of 
the  nationalisation  of  land  is  beyond  him.  What  he 
chiefly  desires  is  to  be  a  landowner  himself,  with  ten- 
ants and  retainers  of  his  own  to  whom  he  can  in  his 
turn  be  a  tyrant  and  indifferent.  I  firmly  believe 
that  were  it  possible  so  to  nationalise  property  to- 
morrow as  to  give  the  right  to  cultivate  a  certain 
number  of  acres  to  each  peasant,  he  would  still  feel 
aggrieved  that  he  had  not  some  one  to  whom  he  might 
appear  hateful  and  to  be  envied.  That  desire  for 
glory,  for  display,  is  in  the  very  marrow  of  the  bones 
of  the  Neapolitans  and  Sicilians.  To  be  happy  is 
not  enough,  they  must  also  be  envied.  It  is  true 
that  in  the  north — in  Tuscany,  for  instance,  which 
has  had  the  advantage  of  fair  government  for  a  long 
time  now — there  is  less  discontent  and  there  is  less 
misery.  This  is  not  altogether  owing  to  the  system 
of  partnership  between  landlord  and  peasant  that 
obtains  there,  but  is  in  part  at  least  due  to  a  real 
difference  in  character.  Socialism  can  make  but 
little  headway  in  Tuscany  outside  the  cities.  I 
am  not  anxious  to  deny  that  the  Tuscany  peasant 
is  far  happier  and  better  off  than  the  southerner, — 
he  is,  on  the  contrary,  very  much  better  off ; 
but  also  he  is  of  a  different  character,  a  stronger 
race,  and  furnishes,  I  think,  the  finest  speci- 
men   of    an    Italian    to   be   found    to  -  day ;    indeed 


THE   SOCIALISTS  59 

there  are  few  finer  races  in  the  world  than  the 
Tuscan. 

But  it  is  in  the  north  that  Socialism  has  been  most 
successful ;  in  Milan,  which  sends  three  Socialists 
to  Montecitorio,  thus  returning  a  Socialist  for  half 
of  her  constituencies.  This  is  partly  explained  by 
the  misery  of  a  large  proportion  of  the  artisan  class 
— that  is,  the  peasantry  of  a  large  city.  The  riots  of 
1898  will  prove  to  any  one  who  cares  to  examine  the 
matter  with  fairness  the  enormous  extent  of  that 
misery.  It  is  there  in  Milan  that  the  Christian 
democrats  have  a  stronghold.  It  was  probably  this 
fact  which  led  to  the  suspicion  of  the  Church  as 
having  helped  to  cause  the  riot  of  1898.  There  were 
undoubtedly  hundreds  of  priests  who  sympathised 
with  the  people.  I  doubt,  however,  that  they  would 
advise  or  countenance  riot.  If  they  did  so,  which 
has  never  been  proven,  they  did  so  absolutely  with- 
out authority  save  that  of  their  own  judgment,  which 
in  political  matters  it  is  difficult  to  underestimate. 
But  it  is  on  the  whole  an  excellent  sign  that  a  party 
owing  supreme  allegiance  to  the  Holy  See  should 
mix  to  some  extent  with  the  Socialists,  for  they  will 
help  to  leaven  that  very  various  lump,  giving  it  some- 
thing of  their  own  high-mindedness  and  reverence, 
without  which  it  would  be  more  dangerous  than  it  is. 

It  is  curious  that  wherever  Socialism  manifests 
itself — and  where  does  it  not?  —  it  is  always  as 
champion  of  the  lower  class  against  the  upper  class, 
the   uneducated   against  the  educated,   and  never  as 


6o  ITALY   OF   TO-DAY 

the  champion  of  humanity  as  a  whole.  In  this  it 
differs  from  Anarchism  only  in  its  mode  of  attack, 
for  the  latter  disease  would  have  humanity  commit 
suicide,  while  the  former  philosophy  suggests  that 
humanity  shall  perish  utterly  in  a  fight  between  rich 
and  poor.  Their  method  of  propagating  an  idea  in 
itself  noble  and  Christian  may  be  to  blame  for  my 
conclusion ;  for  it  is  always  the  rich  man  who  is  the 
enemy,  not  for  any  fault  of  his  own,  but  because  he 
is  rich.  So  to  the  Italians,  who  are  eager  listeners 
to  any  sort  of  philosophy,  it  appears  that  he  who 
owns  a  factory  is  the  natural  enemy  of  him  he  em- 
ploys ;  he  who  has  a  house  is  the  oppressor  of  him 
who  has  none ;  he  who  has  food  is  the  murderer  of 
him  who  has  died  of  starvation.  And  so  the  Italian 
sees  the  human  nature  of  such  an  argument,  and  is 
not  dismayed  when  he  is  told  in  an  apologetic  way 
by  the  householder  or  the  manufacturer  that  it  really 
is  not  his  fault,  but  that  obviously  he  would  be  a  fool 
to  give  up  his  factory  or  his  house  to  the  many  house- 
less ones,  because  then  even  he  himself  would  be 
houseless  too.  But  if,  on  the  other  hand,  the  Social- 
ist desires  nothing  so  much  as  brotherly  love  among 
men,  and  is  not  anxious,  should  he  see  a  chance,  to 
appeal  to  physical  force  which  might  enable  him  to 
seize  the  goods  of  those  he  calls  bourgeoisie,  then  how 
is  one  to  account  not  only  for  the  bread  riots,  but 
also  for  the  many  extraordinary  speeches  and  pam- 
phlets that  are  written  by  well-known  men  up  and 
down  Italy  ?     Thus  one  finds  that  in  Italy  Socialism 


THE    SOCIALISTS  61 

is  really  at  the  mercy  of  its  ideas,  and  also  at  the 
mercy  of  the  ideas  it  creates  in  the  mind  of  the 
crowd.  In  a  country  so  phlegmatic,  so  indifferent, 
so  difficult  to  rouse  as  England,  Socialism  really  has 
a  better  chance  of  fulfilling  its  mission;  in  Italy  it 
can  only  exist  by  stirring  up  the  passions  of  man,  so 
easily  aroused,  and  in  the  end  being  captured  by 
them. 

I  do  not  for  one  moment  seek  to  deny  that 
Socialism  in  Italy  was  created  by  the  pressing  need 
of  reform,  but  I  am  inclined  to  deny  that  Socialism 
can  ever  really  do  any  lasting  good  to  Italy.  Already 
one  sees  that  fatal  cancer,  Opportunism,  eating  into 
the  Socialist  as  into  every  other  political  party  in 
Italy,  so  that  one  finds  it  also  willing  to  sacrifice 
something,  some  principle,  in  order  to  gain  an  ad- 
vantage in  Parliament  or  in  the  country.  It  is  not 
by  pointing  out  the  horrible  indifference  of  the  rich 
to  the  poor,  nor  by  calling  the  stupid  middle  class 
shopkeeper  a  murderer,  that  Italy  will  be  bettered 
or  will  find  peace,  for  in  the  end  that  idea  can  only 
succeed  in  destroying  society  utterly ;  but  in  patiently 
teaching  the  people  how  to  help  themselves,  how  to 
better  themselves,  so  that  in  the  end  they  may  be 
worthy  indeed  of  those  things  as  yet  denied  them 
not  altogether  through  the  fault  of  others.  It  is 
so  easy  to  preach  patience,  so  difficult  to  practise 
it.  Yet  I  believe  with  all  my  heart  that  patience 
is  still  the  mightiest  weapon  that  those  who  really 
desire   the   good   of  this   country  can   use.      Thirty, 


62  ITALY   OF   TO-DAY 

forty  years  are  such  a  long  time  for  a  man  to  wait 
to  see  the  fulfilment  of  his  dreams,  but  in  the  life 
of  a  nation  they  are  but  a  moment.  The  waiting 
is  long  and  terrible  that  is  necessary  for  the  realisa- 
tion of  any  very  precious  thing,  but  the  character 
of  a  nation  is  tried  and  proved  by  such  agony.  Let 
Italy  take  heart :  oh,  I  speak  not  as  one  who  is 
nothing  moved  by  her  sorrows  and  her  pain,  but 
as  one  who  would  do  much  to  help  her,  all  he  could 
do,  and  indeed  I  believe  the  greatest  need  at  this 
time  is  patience  and  a  great  faith  m  herself  and  in 
her  King. 

And  in  these  long  years  of  waiting  it  is  the  greatest 
misfortune  that  the  Pope  has  felt  obliged  to  forbid 
Catholics  to  vote  at  the  parliamentary  elections. 
Thus  many  of  the  most  orderly  and  sane  Italians 
are  compelled  to  remain  out  of  political  life  alto- 
getherc  It  is  to  be  hoped  and  believed  that  before 
long,  perhaps  even  at  the  next  election,  he  will  be 
able  to  repeal  this  law,  that  only  gives  greater  power 
to  his  bitterest  enemies. 

But  it  is  really  not  so  much  in  politics  of  any  sort, 
save  those  that  shall  bring  peace  with  the  Church, 
that  the  salvation  of  this  land,  so  splendid  in  every- 
thing but  the  fortunes  of  her  people,  lies,  but  in  work 
both  industrial  and  agricultural.  Let  the  Socialists 
forget  their  passions  and  put  away  all  hatred  and 
remember  only  their  love  for  their  country  and  their 
fellow-men,  and  in  the  greatness  of  their  power  let 
them  devote  all  their   energies  to  the   development 


THE    SOCIALISTS  63 

of  agriculture  and  the  industries  of  the  north. 
Though  Italy  is  not  naturally  a  very  rich  country, 
she  is  richer  than  she  appears  to  be  to-day.  For 
if  the  Socialists  are  honest,  as  I  for  one  believe  them 
to  be,  they  desire  before  all  things  the  happiness 
and  welfare  of  their  country,  which  they  will  find 
lies  not  in  hatred  but  in  charity,  not  in  jealousy 
but  in  trust,  not  in  selfishness  but  in  self-sacrifice. 

But  I  must  end  as  I  began,  it  is  to  them  probably 
the  immediate  future  is  given :  we  who  are  but 
passers-by  after  all,  in  spite  of  all  our  love,  can  do 
little  but  hope  that  if  they  have  the  power  put  into 
their  hands  they  will  realise  their  responsibility  and 
use  it  well. 

It  is  not  to  be  thought  of  even  for  a  moment 
that  all  those  great  and  splendid  dreamers  dreamed 
but  in  vain,  that  all  those  heroes  who  marched  under 
the  ragged  banners  of  Garibaldi  died  in  vain ;  that 
vanity  should  be  the  end  of  her  of  whom  all  men 
dream  when  they  are  children  and  hear  for  the  first 
time  the  name  of  Caesar,  when  they  are  in  the  flush 
of  youth  and  read  of  love  in  Horace,  when  they  are 
men  and  come  to  her  and  find  her  beautiful  and 
fairer  than  the  fairest,  when  they  are  old  and  stir, 
by  the  winter  fire  in  England,  or  some  other  land, 
turn  softly  the  page  of  Virgil,  oh,  it  is  not  to  be 
thought  of.  For  her  men  have  yearned  in  the  dark 
cities  for  a  lifetime>  under  her  sky  men  have  believed 
in  lovely  things,  on  leaving  her  men  have  wept  as 
for  a  dear  mistress,  to  her  the  world  will  turn  when 


64  ITALY   OF   TO-DAY 

beauty  has  fled  in  terror  from  elsewhere,  at  her  call 
ever  swords  shall  flash,  at  her  name  eyes  blaze  with 
love,  for  her  fame  is  everlasting  and  her  beauty  im- 
maculate in  the  hands  of  the  immortal  dead  to  whom 
she  was  very  precious. 


VI. 


LITERATURE, 


I. 


ITALIAN  literature,  that  has  in  the  past  pro 
duced  so  many  great  and  magnificent  master- 
pieces, that  numbers  among  its  many  glorious  names 
not  a  few  that  are  immortal,  that  is  the  eldest 
daughter  of  the  Latin  tongue,  is  to-day  like  one 
newly  risen  from  the  dead.  Still  pale  and  but  half 
alive  after  the  long  sojourn  underground,  she  prom- 
ises us  at  the  least,  in  this  her  new  youth,  great 
things  about  to  be  accomplished.  And  looking 
back  on  Italian  literature  proper  of  the  last  thirty 
years,  four  names  stand  out  from  the  innumerable 
crowd  of  philosophers,  political  writers,  pamphlet- 
eers, and  revolutionaries — namely,  Carducci,  Verga, 
Fogazzaro,  and  D'Annunzio,  and  the  greatest  of 
these  is  D'Annunzio. 

It  is  only  with  the  present  age  of  letters  in  Italy 
that  we  must  concern  ourselves,  pleasant  and  prof- 
itable  as   it   would   doubtless   be   to  examine  some- 

E 


66  ITALY   OF  TO-DAY 

what  minutely  the  more  or  less  distant  past.  We 
are  but  travellers  after  all ;  it  is  the  impression 
of  the  living  moment  that  we  seek  for  so  labori- 
ously, betraying  it,  having  snared  it  carefully,  to 
captivity. 

And  as  in  all  other  countries  that  have  subjected 
themselves  to  European  culture  and  civilisation,  so 
in  Italy  we  find  chaos — Art,  Beauty,  Letters,  fettered 
and  derided  by  the  crowd,  that  is  already  licking 
the  plebeian  feet  of  its  millionaires.  All  rules  and 
standards  of  faith,  of  morals,  and  of  taste,  have  been 
overthrown  by  the  crowd  which  found  them  irksome ; 
no  canon  of  literature  or  art  exists  which  is  acknow- 
ledged by  the  anarchists  who  call  themselves  a 
people,  or  by  the  particular  class  of  cocks  and 
cockerels  who  call  themselves  men  of  letters.  So 
one  finds  that  not  only  is  the  existence  of  God 
doubted  as  of  old  by  fools,  but  that  the  merits  of 
the  great  masters  of  literature  and  art  are  either 
openly  denied  or  simply  disregarded.  And  even 
as  God  is  safe  in  His  heaven,  nor  shall  the  crowing 
of  ten  million  cocks  distract  Him  for  a  moment 
from  His  meditation,  so  in  spite  of  the  laughter 
and  ignorance  of  the  crowd  the  great  masters  remain 
immortal  and  inviolate,  guarding  the  way  to  Par- 
nassus. Having  decided  to  forget  and  forego  the 
Past,  it  has  been  found  necessary  to  invent  some 
ideal,  some  standard  of  achievement  at  which  this 
magnificent  new  democracy  may  aim  in  matters  of 
art — so  Truth,  Reality,  was  born  quietly  in  a  brothel, 


LITERATURE  67 

the  ugly  daughter  of  an  actor  and  a  harlot,  and 
ever  since  democracy  has  been  trying  to  kiss  her 
exaggerated  lips  and  to  look  into  her  bloodshot  and 

!ying  eyes- 

This  triumph  of  democracy  over  art  has  not,  how- 
ever, succeeded  in  effacing  individual  talent  or  genius. 
It  is  true  that  no  great  and  classical  production  seems 
possible,  but  the  frequently  erratic  imperfect  work  of 
individual  writers  is  met  with  that  merits  our  atten- 
tion. Literature  in  Italy  to-day  resembles  politics  in 
that  land,  in  that  it  is  confused  by  reason  of  its  own 
liberty  and  licence. 

First  in  point  of  time,  though  it  may  be  not  in 
merit,  stands  Giosue  Carducci,  who  has  contrived  to 
express  the  romantic  desire  for  liberty  and  unity  that 
is  or  was  a  characteristic  of  the  Italian  peoples.  The 
son  of  a  physician,  he  was  born  at  the  village  of 
Valdicastello,  between  Spezia  and  Pisa,  in  July  1836. 
In  1849  ne  with  his  father  went  to  Florence,  where 
he  entered  the  Scuole  Pie,  and  began  his  studies  that 
were  continued  at  the  University  of  Pisa.  His  first 
volume,  '  Rime,'  was  published  in  1857,  while  he  was 
a  private  tutor  in  Florence,  where  he  also  wrote  for 
the  reviews.  There,  too,  he  became  part  editor  of 
1 II  Poliziano,'  a  review  devoted  to  the  cause  of 
Classicism  as  opposed  to  Romanticism.  In  i860  he 
appears  to  have  gone  to  Bologna,  where  he  has  lived 
ever  since,  being  at  one  time  Professor  of  Literature 
in  the  University  there.  In  1865  appeared  his  famous 
"  Inno  a  Satana  " — "  Hymn  to  Satan  " — in  which  he 


68  ITALY   OF  TO-DAY 

appears  to  look  to  Satan  as  a  kind  of  Messiah 
more  genuine  than  II  Gesu  Cristo ;  as,  indeed,  the 
incarnate  spirit  of  Liberty. 

"  Salute  O  Satana, 
O  Ribellione, 
O  forza  vindice, 
Delia  ragione, 
Sacri  a  te  salgano 
Gl'  incensi  e  i  voti ! 
Hai  vinto  il  Giova 
De'  sacerdoti," 

and  suchlike  youthfulness,  very  common  even  in 
England  in  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
that  it  is  scarcely  necessary  to  translate.  Mr  G. 
A.  Greene,  from  whose  book,  '  Italian  Lyrists  of 
To-Day,'  I  have  borrowed  the  graceful  translations 
given  in  this  chapter,  says  of  this  poem,  "  I  do 
not,  even  for  all  its  brilliancy,  consider  it  truly 
representative  of  Carducci's  genius,  and  with  re- 
spect to  its  form  this  appears  to  be  the  poet's 
own  maturest  judgment  upon  the  youthful  out- 
burst which  made  him  famous."  He  published 
poems  from  i860  to  1870,  which  have  been  collected 
in  '  Decennalia,'  and  '  New  Poems  '  in  1873.  In 
1877  he  published  the  '  Odi  Barbare,'  Italian  poems 
in  the  old  classical  metres  which  created  much  crit- 
icism on  style  in  modern  verse.  An  example  from 
this  volume,  translated  by  Mr  G.  A.  Greene,  will  not 
be  out  of  place. 


LITERATURE  69 


In  the  Square  of  San  Petronio  at  Bologna  on  a 

Winter's  Evening. 

u  Rises  in  frost  of  winter,  gloomy  and  towered  Bologna, 
While  the  mountain  above  smiles  in  the  glimmer  of  snow. 
This  is  the  tranquil  hour  when  the  sun  that  is  dying  saluteth 
Towers  and  fane  to  thee,  sainted  Petronius,  raised. 
Towers  whose  summits  were  touched  by  wings  of  the  ages  that 

vanished, 
And  of  the  solemn  fane,  pinnacles  lofty  and  lone. 
Cold  adamantine,  the  heavens  are  agleam  with  dazzling  splen- 
dour ; 
All  the  air  like  a  veil,  silver,  diaphanous  lies 
Over  the  forum  lightly  blending  with  colour  the  masses 
Dark,  which  the  weaponed  hand  once  of  our  ancestors  built. 
Up  on  the  lofty  heights  the  sun  as  it  sinketh,  delaying, 
Pierces  with  languid  smile  violet  mists  of  the  night, 
Which  in  the  old  grey  stone,  in  the  dusky  vermilion  brickwork, 
Seems  to  waken  anew  souls  of  the  ages  that  passed, 
So  that  a  mournful  desire  in  the  frosty  air  is  awakened — 
Ah  !  for  the  roseate  May's,  warm  in  the  perfume  of  eve, 
When  the  beautiful  maidens  danced  in  the  open  places, 
And  with  the  conquered  kings  triumphing  consuls  returned. 
So  do  the  joyful  Muses  turn  to  the  resonant  metre 
Trembling  with  vain  desire,  seeking  the  beauty  antique/' 

In  '  I  Critici  Italiani  e  La  Metrica  delle  Odi  Bar- 
bare  '  Chiarini  defends  very  ably  Carducci's  use  of 
the  classical  metres,  yet  it  may  be  doubted  whether 
any  modern  language  can  support  the  magnificence 
and  weight  of  the  hexameter,  for  instance,  with 
dignity.  In  English,  Mr  Swinburne  and  Mr  William 
Watson  may  be  said  to  have  succeeded,  perhaps — 
the  latter  in  one  poem  "The  Hymn  to  the  Sea" — 
while  Clough  and  a  host  of  others  fail.      We    can 


70  ITALY   OF  TO-DAY 

never  be  sufficiently  thankful  that  Spenser  decided 
against  this  metre  for  his  "  Faerie  Queene,"  in 
spite  of  the  efforts  of  Abraham  Fraunce,  whose 
"  Emmanuel "  is  perhaps  the  most  charming  an- 
tique example  of  the  use  of  the  hexameter  in 
English  verse.  But  it  is,  as  I  think,  in  the 
Sapphic  metre  rather  than  in  the  Horatian  or  the 
hexameter  that  Carducci  has  been  most  successful. 
The  following  translation,  in  Sapphics,  may  help 
the  reader  who  knows  not  Italian  to  understand 
something  of  Carducci's  verse : — 


On  Monte  Mario. 

"  Cypresses  solemn  stand  on  Monte  Mario, 
Luminous,  quiet  is  the  air  around  them, 
They  watch  the  Tiber  through  the  misty  meadows 
Wandering  voiceless. 

They  gaze  beneath  them  where,  a  silent  city, 
Rome  lies  extended  :  like  a  giant  shepherd, 
O'er  flocks  unnumbered  vigilant  and  watchful 
Rises  St  Peter's. 

Friends,  on  the  summit  of  the  sunlit  mountain 
Mix  we  the  white  wine  scintillating  brightly 
In  mirrored  sunshine  ;  smile,  O  lovely  maidens  ! 
Death  comes  to-morrow. 

Lalage,  touch  not  in  the  scented  copses 
The  boasted  laurel  that  is  called  eternal, 
Lest  it  should  lose  there  in  thy  chestnut  tresses 
Half  of  its  splendour. 


LITERATURE  71 

Between  the  verses  pensively  arising 
Mine  be  the  laughter  of  the  joyous  vintage 
And  mine  the  rosebuds  fugitive,  in  winter 
Flowering  to  perish. 

We  die  to-morrow,  as  the  lost  and  loved  ones 
Yesterday  perished  ;  out  of  all  men's  memories 
And  all  men's  loving,  shadow-like  and  fleeting 
We  too  shall  vanish. 

Yes,  we  must  die,  friends  ;  and  the  earth,  unceasing 
Still  in  its  labour,  round  the  sun  revolving 
Shall  every  instant  send  our  lives  in  thousand 
Sparks  evanescent ; 

Lives  which  in  new  loves  passionate  shall  quiver, 
Lives  which  in  new  wars  conquering  shall  triumph, 
And  unto  Gods  new  sing  in  grander  chorus 
Hymns  to  the  future. 

Nations  unborn  yet,  in  whose  hands  the  beacon 
Shall  blaze  resplendent,  which  from  ours  has  fallen. 
Ye  too  shall  vanish,  luminous  battalions 
Into  the  endless. 

Farewell  thou  mother,  Earth,  of  my  brief  musings 
And  of  my  spirit  fugitive  !     How  much  thou 
^Eons-long  whirling  round  the  sun  shalt  carry 
Glory  and  sorrow  ! 

Till  the  day  comes,  when,  on  the  chilled  equator, 
Following  vainly  heat  that  is  expiring 
Of  man's  exhausted  race  survive  one  only 
Man  and  one  woman. 

Who  stand  forsaken  on  the  ruined  mountains 
Mid  the  dead  forests,  pale  with  glassy  eyeballs 
Watching  the  sun's  orb  o'er  the  fearful  ice-fields 
Sink  for  the  last  time." 


72  ITALY   OF  TO-DAY 

Probably  the  best  example  in  English  of  the 
Sapphic  metre  so-called — though  it  is  improbable 
that  Sappho  invented  it  —  is  to  be  found  in  Mr 
Swinburne's  poem  "  Sapphics  "  : — 

"  All  the  night  sleep  came  not  upon  my  eyelids, 
Shed  not  dew,  nor  shook  nor  unclosed  a  feather, 
Yet  with  lips  shut  close  and  with  eyes  of  iron 
Stood  and  beheld  me." 

But  in  spite  of  this  desire  for  manner,  for  classicism, 
Carducci  is  very  far  from  being  all  form  and  no  sub- 
ject, if  indeed  that  was  ever  attained  by  any  writer 
that  ever  lived.  His  "  sense  "  is  extremely  clear  and 
weighty. 

In  1896,  at  the  University  of  Bologna,  the  jubilee 
of  his  professorship  was  celebrated.  In  life  he  has 
been  almost  as  successful  as  in  art :  entering  politics 
as  an  extreme  Radical,  he  is  now  a  senator,  and, 
we  may  believe,  a  loyal  subject  of  King  Victor 
Emmanuel.  He  is  of  course  an  anti-clerical,  as  his 
"  Hymn  to  Satan  "  assures  us.  He  appears  but 
for  one  exception  to  dominate  modern  Italian  verse, 
but  the  exception,  D'Annunzio,  beginning  as  Car- 
ducci's  disciple,  has  far  outsoared  his  master  not 
only  in  thought  but  in  the  art  of  poetry.  Of  him, 
however,  I  treat  more  fully  in  a  separate  section,  as 
being  of  all  modern  Italian  writers  the  only  one 
who  has  attained  European  fame.  Carducci's  poems 
have  been  translated  by  Mr  F.  Sewall,  and  were 
published  in  New  York  in  1891.  Mr  G.  A.  Greene, 
in    his    'Italian    Lyrists   of   To -Day'    (John    Lane, 


LITERATURE  73 

London,  1893),  already  referred  to,  has  translated 
a  number  of  his  pieces  very  delightfully. 

Giovanni  Verga,  born  at  Catania  in  Sicily  in  1840, 
is  known  all  over  the  world  as  the  author  of  the 
libretto  of  "  Cavalleria  Rusticana."  He  is  of  the 
same  school  as  Emile  Zola,  with  this  difference,  that, 
unlike  the  Frenchman,  he  is  intensely  local — as  local, 
for  instance,  as  Thomas  Hardy;  and  as  Hardy  seldom 
or  never  leaves  Wessex,  so  Verga  never  leaves  Sicily, 
which  he  views  with  that  "  inward  eye  "  from  Milan 
where  he  lives.  A  novelist  of  the  most  desperate 
industry,  he  is  continually  producing  documents  that 
are,  I  imagine,  in  the  eyes  of  the  scientist  utterly  un- 
trustworthy, but  that  he  vaguely  believes  may  bring 
him  immortality  as  social  history.  Perhaps  his  wish 
may  be  fulfilled,  in  spite  of  the  scientists. 

The  minor  poets — some  of  them  true  poets  though 
of  small  volume — at  present  writing  in  Italy  are  in- 
numerable. Mr  G.  A.  Greene  finds  thirty-two  worthy 
of  translation  beside  Carducci  and  D'Annunzio.  Of 
these  perhaps  the  most  widely-known  writer — though 
scarcely  as  a  poet — is  Antonio  Fogazzaro,  who  in  the 
opinion  of  many  is  the  greatest  novelist  at  present 
writing  in  Italy,  for  to  a  host  of  people  D'Annunzio 
is  anathema.  Fogazzaro  has  been  called  the  poet  of 
hope  and  faith,  but  it  is  chiefly  as  a  novelist  that  he 
is  famous,  though  to  the  English  public  he  is  access- 
ible only  in  his  '  Malombra,'  translated  by  Mr  F. 
T.  Dickson,  published  by  Fisher  Unwin,  1896 ;  and 
'  Daniele    Cortis,'    translated    by   Mr   S.   L.   Simeon, 


74  ITALY   OF  TO-DAY 

and  published  in  1890.  These  two  books  are,  how- 
ever, not  the  best  examples  of  his  work.  It  is  in  such 
books  as  '  II  Piccolo  Mondo  Antico '  and  '  II  Piccolo 
Mondo  Moderno  '  that  he  proves  himself  to  be  a  really 
fine  artist,  avoiding  what  Messrs  Bolton  King  and 
Okey  call  his  "  tendency  to  preach,"  though  certainly 
an  Englishman  would  not  easily  find  such  a  tendency 
in  J  Malombra.'  He  was  born  at  Vicenza  in  1842,  and 
published  his  first  work,  *  Miranda,'  a  kind  of  romance 
in  verse,  in  1874. 

His  recent  work,  '  II  Piccolo  Mondo  Moderno,'  is, 
in  my  opinion,  far  finer  than  anything  else  he  has 
done.  f  II  Piccolo  Mondo  Antico,'  the  book  that 
came  immediately  before  it,  is  almost  a  masterpiece 
— the  later  work  is  really  so.  It  is  concerned  with 
the  life  and  temptations  of  one  Piero  Maironi.  In 
the  end  Maironi  enters  a  monastery,  under  what 
Rule  we  are  not  told.  Fogazzaro  will,  I  feel  sure, 
yet  prove  himself  a  greater  writer  than  the  world 
imagines  him.  He  perhaps  needs  a  little  reticence 
— a  lack  of  which  in  D'Annunzio  has  almost  pre- 
vented the  English  from  reading  him.  But  he  can 
give  us  real  men  and  women,  who  have  nothing 
in  common  with  the  creatures  of  the  realists ;  his 
psychology  is  subtle,  but  one  does  not  think  of  his 
characters  from  the  scientific  but  rather  from  the 
artistic  point  of  view. 

Guerrini,  Ada  Negri,  Rapisardi,  and  Ersilio  Bicci 
are  four  lyrical  poets  of  fine  achievement,  though  not 
in  the  first  rank.     Guerrini  began  as  an  erotic  poet 


LITERATURE  75 

of  the  most  finished  kind,  and  has  developed  a  love 
for  political  verse,  which,  in  its  way,  is  most  excellent. 
Ada  Negri,  of  whom  report  speaks  as  one  of  those 
utterly  natural  spirits  to  be  met  with  perhaps  in  our 
day  only  in  Italy,  has  sung  the  despair  and  hopeless- 
ness of  the  poor  of  Lombardy,  the  poor,  who  at  least 
in  the  north  are  awaking  from  their  lethargy.  It  is 
possible  she  may  accomplish  much.  Rapisardi,  the 
Sicilian,  born  in  1843  at  Catania,  as  was  Giovanni 
Verga,  is  the  antagonist  of  Carducci,  an  anti-Christ- 
ian and  a  Socialist :  he  appears  to  have  been  over- 
come by  humanity,  and  in  the  struggle  his  art  has 
suffered,  f  Giobbe,'  one  of  his  most  famous  works, 
published  in  1884,  which  was  ridiculed  especially  by 
Guerrini,  is  in  many  respects  a  fine  work  spoiled  by 
the  poet's  enthusiasm  for  his  fellow-men.  Ersilio 
Bicci,  born  in  1845  in  Tuscany,  is  another  of  Car- 
ducci's  opponents.  A  poet  of  great  simplicity,  he 
writes  so  that  he  may  be  understood  of  the  people — 
a  rather  hopeless  task  for  a  poet,  one  may  believe. 
A  very  delightful  translation  of  one  of  his  poems  I 
give  below  from  Mr  G.  A.  Greene's  book. 

Contempt. 

"When  I  pass  singing,  singing  on  my  way, 
I  think  not,  dream  not,  of  her — not  indeed  ! 
Burns  she  with  jealousy?     Well,  well,  she  may  ; 
I  mind  my  own  affairs,  and  give  no  heed. 
If  in  my  song  she  fancy  that  she  hears 
Some  note  of  sadness  or  some  trace  of  tears, 


76  ITALY   OF   TO-DAY 

It  is  my  whim — not  that  my  heart  is  sore  ! 
For  as  to  that  I  care  for  her  no  more. 
And  if  they  say  I  drive  the  cynic's  trade, 
It  is  Time's  fault,  not  hers  who  love  betrayed  ; 
Or  that  I  call  on  Death  where'er  I  rove, 
What  matters  that  to  her  ?     Am  I  her  love  ? 
But  if  I  meet  her  with  Luigi,  know 
She  to  her  grave — I  to  the  gallows  go. 

Edmondo  De  Amicis,  born  near  Genoa  in  1846, 
was  educated  for  the  army.  In  1867  he  began  to 
write  his  interesting  '  Bozzetti  della  Vita  Militare,' 
which  brought  him  fame  and  fortune.  He  has 
written  many  books  of  travel,  on  Spain,  Constanti- 
nople, and  Holland.  His  latest  book  (1902),  '  Un 
Salotto  Fiorentino  del  Secolo  Scorso,'  is  an  excep- 
tion to  his  work  as  a  rule,  in  that  it  is  dull  and 
disappointing.  He  is  undoubtedly  one  of  the  most 
popular  writers  in  the  peninsula. 

Of  Pasquale  Villari,  the  really  fine  historian ; 
of  Lanciani  and  Rossi,  the  famous  archaeologists ; 
of  Lombroso,  the  criminologist  and  psychologist, 
and  other  specialists  as  it  were  in  literature  and 
science,  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  speak.  After  all, 
literature  with  them  is  a  secondary  thing.  But 
Lanciani,  at  least,  is  a  writer  of  fine  and  clear 
style,  whom  it  is  well  worth  the  while  of  the 
traveller  to  read,  especially  if  he  be  interested  in 
classic  Italy. 

Literature  proper  is  in  a  condition  of  drowsiness. 
It  might  almost  be  said  that  there  are  but  two  writers 
of  importance  in   Italy,  Carducci   and    D'Annunzio, 


LITERATURE  77 

and  one  of  them  grows  old.  Yet  with  such  achieve- 
ment as  theirs  before  her,  Italy  can  never  dare  to 
despair  of  her  future. 

Matilde  Serao,  by  far  the  greatest  writer  of  all 
Italian  women,  has  undoubtedly  attained  to  some- 
thing of  a  European  fame.  Two  of  her  books, 
1  Fantasy  '  and  '  Farewell  Love,'  were  translated  into 
English  so  long  ago  as  1891  and  1896,  and  were 
published  by  Mr  Heinemann  in  his  "  International 
Library."  It  is,  however,  in  her  later  work  that 
Matilde  Serao  is  most  fortunate.  '  Suor  Giovanna 
della  Croce,'  perhaps  the  most  pitiful  book  that 
modern  Italy  has  produced,  is  the  story  of  a  nun 
whose  convent  has  been  suppressed  by  the  Govern- 
ment, and  who  is  literally  thrown  into  the  streets. 
It  will  shortly  appear  in  English, — indeed  a  uniform 
edition  of  Signora  Serao's  work  is  in  course  of 
publication  by  Mr  Heinemann.  In  '  The  Land  of 
Cockayne '  she  treats  of  the  lottery  system,  that 
benefits  the  Government  so  largely  and  depraves  the 
people.  In  '  The  Ballet-Dancer '  one  finds,  as  indeed 
in  most  of  her  work,  a  kind  of  realism  often  painful, 
perhaps  seldom  really  worthy  of  the  name  of  Art, 
but  very  honest  and  earnest.  She  is,  as  I  think,  not 
verily  of  the  realist  school,  for  all  her  work  is  re- 
deemed by  a  kind  of  poetical  emotion  that  is,  how- 
ever, not  strong  enough  wholly  to  redeem  it,  and 
yet  is  by  no  means  a  mere  sentimentality.  She 
thinks  too  deeply  ever  to  be  captured  by  mere  senti- 
ment.      '  II   Paese   di   Gesu '   is,   while  less  exquisite 


78  ITALY   OF  TO-DAY 

by  far  than  Pierre  Loti's  '  Palestine,'  perhaps  more 
in  sympathy  with  the  religion  of  the  Church  and 
of  Christ.  In  '  La  Madonna  e  i  Santi,'  published  in 
1902,  she  is  how  far !  from  the  early  romances  with 
which  she  made  her  success.  Something  exquisite 
has  come  into  her  life,  as  it  were :  often  a  writer  of 
vision,  it  is  as  though  she  had  suddenly  for  the  first 
time  seen  the  sun,  and  the  whole  world  had  been 
changed  for  her.  It  is  certain  that  the  writer  of 
1  Suor  Giovanna '  is  capable  of  much,  but  the  writer 
of  '  La  Madonna '  seems  to  promise  us  something 
more  and  something  very  different. 


II.  Gabriele  D'Annunzio. 

Born  in  the  year  1863  in  the  old  walled  town  of 
Pescara,  Gabriele  D'Annunzio  is  at  the  age  of  thirty- 
eight  famous  throughout  Europe,  chiefly  by  means 
of  the  influence  of  the  great  French  critic  the  Vicomte 
de  Vogue,  who,  as  is  well  known,  welcomed  him  as 
the  angel  of  the  Latin  Renaissance.  And  perhaps  it 
is  by  reason  of  this  splendid  annunciation,  rather 
than  by  the  power  of  his  own  genius,  hidden  or  ob- 
scured, at  least  to  the  majority  of  mankind,  by  the 
general  ignorance  of  so  antique  a  language  as  Italian, 
that  the  world  has  received  him  so  readily,  and  set 
him  too  among  its  gods.  For  though  it  is  in  vain 
that  we  should  deny  his  genius,  for  it  is  incontestable ; 
it  is  strange  that  he  is  welcomed,  everywhere  almost, 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  79 

more  readily  than  he  is  in  Italy,  seeing  that  it  is 
really  only  the  Italian  who  reads  him  in  his  own 
words. 

Profound,  in  the  strict  sense  of  the  word,  never,  as 
is  almost  a  matter  of  course  in  modern  English  liter- 
ature, without  ideas,  he  is  at  one  and  the  same  time 
a  Mystic  and  a  Realist.  Taking  the  side  neither  of 
the  Angels  nor  of  the  Devils,  he  is  even  scornful  of 
Man,  a  passion  for  whom  has  led  to  some  of  the 
great  indiscretions  in  literature.  A  Mystic,  he  is 
never  far  from  reality ;  a  Realist,  he  is  almost  always 
a  poet,  consumed,  it  would  seem,  even  when  in  the 
close  embrace  of  the  actual  world,  with  a  lust  for  the 
beauty  of  mere  words,  desiring,  almost  before  any- 
thing beside,  the  emotion  of  their  flight  and  sweep 
and  glory  and  terror.  And  in  the  quest  for  this 
beauty  he  has  searched  all  lands  and  ransacked  the 
fields  of  Cadmus  and  the  burial-places  of  the  Atridse. 
Nor  is  he  without  the  words  and  the  grave  serious 
accents  of  the  sensualist,  possessed  by  the  hallucin- 
ation of  Desire,  in  which  madness  he,  like  all  in  the 
grip  of  that  Demon,  is  minute,  dreary,  infinitely 
infinitesimal. 

His  terror  he  has  from  the  Greeks,  and  his  sensu- 
ality, obscenity,  and  passion  from  his  own  land ;  his 
realism  from  France  and  Russia,  and  his  mysticism 
from  Germany  and  Belgium  and  the  profound  Saints 
of  the  Catholic  Church.  It  is  only  from  us  he  has 
learnt  nothing  or  next  to  nothing,  at  least  till  lately, 
finding  perhaps  in  the  plays  of  Shakespeare,  or  the 


80  ITALY   OF   TO-DAY 

writings  of  one  or  two  moderns,  something  less 
lengthy,  less  full  of  useless  words  and  pages  that 
might  have  been  left  out,  than  in  the  writings  of 
Zola  or  the  works  of  Tolstoi  or  the  operas  of  Richard 
Wagner,  and  that  may,  one  is  not  slow  to  think,  be 
of  use  to  him  at  least  by  way  of  example. 

It  is  well  to  remember  in  reading  D'Annunzio  that 
he  wrote  verse  before  ever  he  wrote  prose,  and  not 
verse  only  but  poetry.  Chiarini,  the  critic,  welcomed 
him  as  early  as  1880,  when  his  'Primo  Vere'  was  pub- 
lished, seeing  in  him  perhaps  another  jewel  for  Italy's 
new  crown,  till  later  he  found,  as  he  supposed,  noth- 
ing but  "desire";  and  as  Jowett  said  of  Swinburne, 
so  Chiarini  may  have  said  of  D'Annunzio,  "  A  brilliant 
youth  !  Too  brilliant  a  youth  !  It's  all  youth  !  "  For 
even  in  those  days  D'Annunzio  was  chiefly  an  artist 
in  himself,  exploiting  his  own  soul,  and  mind,  and 
physical  presentment  in  his  work ;  so  that  behind 
the  puppets,  be  they  never  so  living,  happy,  or  sad, 
one  sees  Gabriele  D'Annunzio  smiling,  with  not 
quite  truthful  or  unenigmatic  brows.  And  so  among 
his  other  delightful,  splendid,  or  shameful  poses  there 
is  almost  before  all  that  famous  name — for  Gabriel 
of  the  Annunciation  has  not  so  sweet  a  Prince's  name 
after  all,  but  is  just  Signor  Rapagnetta  in  a  world 
that  as  yet  he  has  taught  to  smile  for  no  other  cause. 
In  his  first  work  in  prose,  '  Libro  delle  Virgine,'  one 
finds  almost  nothing  of  the  Gabriele  D'Annunzio  of 
to-day.  The  strength  and  beauty  of  the  '  Trionfo ' 
are  not  there,  and  even  the  very  prose  itself  is  almost 


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GABRIELE   D'ANNUNZIO  81 

sacrificed  to  a  desire  not  for  reality  but  for  realism ; 
and  it  is  only  when  dealing  with  exterior  things  that 
he  contrives  to  make  a  peace,  broken  over  and  over 
again  with  a  beauty  without  which,  however,  he  is 
never  quite  himself. 

In  considering  his  Novels  first,  and  his  Poetry  and 
Plays  afterwards,  I  deal  with  him  as  the  world  deals, 
treating  him  as  chiefly  a  writer  of  Prose.  But  in 
reading  his  novels  it  is  before  all  things  necessary 
to  remember  that  the  works  of  D'Annunzio  are 
scarcely  novels  at  all  in  our  sense  of  the  word.  It 
is  characteristic  of  the  English  novel  that,  apart  from 
every  other  form  of  literature,  it  alone  is  indifferent 
to  words,  concerning  itself  chiefly  with  a  tale  of  love 
or  crime,  interesting  us  not  by  its  Prose  but  by  its 
inherent  Romance  or  Realism.  It  is  indeed  to  the 
rest  of  literature — to  poetry,  for  example,  in  its  pre- 
occupation with  form — what  the  photograph  is  to 
the  work  of  the  painter,  appealing  to  us  not  by  any 
beauty  of  its  own,  but  by  a  kind  of  familiarity,  as 
who  should  say,  I  recognise  that  person  or  event, 
so  and  not  otherwise  such  or  such  an  occurrence 
must  have  happened.  In  other  words,  the  English 
novelist  is  not  to-day  concerned  with  art  or  literature 
at  all,  he  is  merely  anxious  to  interest  a  certain 
number  of  people  in  the  tale  he  is  telling;  and  be- 
cause for  the  majority  style  or  the  art  of  words 
merely  serves  to  confuse  the  story,  he,  wisely  no 
doubt  and  happily  for  himself,  discards  any  at- 
tempt   at    beauty   of    sentence   or   choice   of   words, 

F 


82  ITALY   OF   TO-DAY 

and  sets  himself  to  tell  a  plain  tale  as  lengthily  as 
he  can. 

It  is,  so  D'Annunzio  seems  to  tell  us,  and  not 
D'Annunzio  alone,  the  interior  life  unsuspected  by 
the  majority  breathing  there  so  quietly,  that  shall 
quicken  imaginative  art.  The  adventures  of  the  soul 
with  itself — it  is  just  there  we  encounter  the  eternal 
in  human  nature  as  we  never  do  in  the  exterior  world. 
Nor,  as  one  can  see  in  D'Annunzio's  work,  will  im- 
aginative art  stop  short  of  Truth  itself.  For  it  is 
not  realism,  nor  even  reality,  for  which  we  seek,  but 
Beauty.  And  in  this  interior  castle  there  can  be  no 
lying.  In  that  quiet  profound  life  where  one  realises 
perhaps  for  the  first  time  that  mankind  was  made 
after  one  image,  it  may  be  indeed  as  our  fathers  have 
told  us  in  the  image  of  God,  no  noise  of  argument  or 
contradiction  can  come ;  one  finds  the  assurance  of 
music  there,  the  certainty  of  life.  But  there  is  no 
country  of  the  spirit  that  does  not  include  as  part  of 
its  kingdom  a  sensuous  or  even  sensual  region  also. 
It  is  not  in  dreamland,  be  sure,  that  the  world  of 
D'Annunzio  lies,  but  in  a  region  of  sensation,  spiritual, 
sensual,  of  profound  and  ridiculous  physical  passions, 
and  tears  as  terrible  and  moving  as  any  looked  at 
from  the  outside  that  have,  oh,  once  upon  a  time, 
made  the  world  laugh  or  weep.  The  phenomena  are 
the  same.  It  is  the  artist  who  is  different.  Con- 
cerned less  with  plot  than  with  beauty,  he  cannot 
excuse  himself  if  he  lies.  An  enemy  really  rather 
contemptuous  of  story-tellers  and  realists,  he  is  con- 


GABRIELE   D'ANNUNZIO  83 

cerned  with  the  adventures  of  the  soul  of  man.  Nor 
will  he  in  his  use  of  words  emulate  their  slovenliness. 
As  his  highest  aim  is  beauty,  so  he  finds  that  at  least 
in  his  own  art  it  is  not  to  be  divorced  from  words ; 
that  in  themselves  perhaps  words  are  the  most  beauti- 
ful things  in  the  world,  to  be  used  carefully  and  not 
without  a  real  love. 

So  in  comparing  D'Annunzio's  work  with  that  of 
the  English  writers  of  to-day,  it  will  be  found,  doubt- 
less, to  be  less  excited  and  excitable,  but,  I  think, 
more  enthusiastic. 

One  speaks  so  many  languages,  one  goes  so  swiftly 
by  train  or  electric  tram,  one  lunches  so  soon  after 
breakfast,  that  a  real  sense  of  humour — that  looking 
on  the  world  as  a  spectacle  of  which  nothing  is  strange 
to  us — is  among  the  rarest  of  habits  or  gifts.  Nor 
indeed  can  one  say  of  D'Annunzio  that  humour  is  a 
habit  with  him.  Is  there,  I  wonder,  a  smile  other 
than  that  of  contempt  in  all  his  work  ?  I  doubt  it. 
But  there,  in  the  silence  and  remoteness  of  '  L'lnno- 
cente '  or  the  more  profound  '  Trionfo,'  and  even  in 
'  II  Piacere '  too,  we  find  time  to  feel  the  genius  of 
places,  the  enchantment  of  quiet  cities,  the  breadth 
of  the  country,  the  vastness  of  the  sea. 

In  '  II  Piacere '  he  is  perhaps  more  under  the 
influence  of  French  work  than  in  any  other  of  his 
longer  books.  This  history  of  a  lust  is  in  some  parts 
almost  as  ugly  as  that  title ;  redeemed  indeed  by  the 
genius  of  the  author  from  the  more  sordid  and  ex- 
citing tale  of  ordinary  French  fiction,  one  has  glimpses 


84  ITALY   OF   TO-DAY 

almost  from  the  first  of  a  new  manner  of  handling 
landscape,  nature,  music,  everything  indeed  that  is 
outside  the  miserable  soul  of  the  hero.  One  is  not 
at  the  trouble  (it  is  never  very  wise)  to  look  at  any 
man's  work  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  morality 
of  the  day,  or  its  fitness  for  the  rather  bilious  mind  of 
the  seventeen-year-old  girl  or  the  schoolboy.  Yet  it 
appears  to  me  that  D'Annunzio  is  often  quite  need- 
lessly obscene,  worrying  subjects  usually  dealt  with 
carefully,  as  a  maniac  will  twist  and  turn  his  fingers, 
never  letting  them  rest  for  a  moment  the  whole  day 
long.  And  so,  almost  in  spite  of  himself  as  it  were, 
D'Annunzio  often  attains  to  a  profound  morality;  for 
having  described  with  the  weary  minuteness  of  the 
sensualist  some  scene  or  passion,  one  is  filled  with 
disgust,  one  finds  the  whole  thing  detestable,  where 
a  man  of  lesser  passions  and  equal  genius  would  have 
moved  us  to  desire. 

And  here,  too,  as  in  all  his  works,  one  finds  the 
hero  Andrea  Sperelli,  as  at  other  times  one  finds 
Giorgio  Aurispa  or  Tullio  Hermil  or  Cantelmo  or  the 
extraordinary  being  of  '  II  Fuoco,'  isolated,  alone,  cut 
off  from  the  world  in  which  he  lives  by  some  impass- 
able barrier  of  the  spirit,  so  that,  as  it  were,  the  very 
atmosphere  he  breathes  would  prove  too  rare  for 
another,  who  after  all,  one  may  believe,  is  not  con- 
sumed by  the  same  flame  as  that  which  is  slowly 
burning  the  very  life  out  of  these  sad  and  passionate 
people.  And  so  one  may  say  of  D'Annunzio,  as  has 
been  said  of  Praxiteles,  that  in  spite  of  his  sensuality, 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  85 

in  spite  of  his  implacable  animalism,  his  aim  is  ideal. 
And,  curiously  enough,  it  is  generally  in  writing  of 
the  sea  that  one  finds  that  vision,  without  which 
one  may  believe  the  artist  works  but  in  vain.  For 
it  is  not  in  the  actions  of  men  or  women,  or  in  their 
thoughts  about  one  another,  that  D'Annunzio  is  in- 
terested, but  perhaps  a  little  in  their  loves  and  in 
their  hates,  and  chiefly  in  their  thoughts  about  them- 
selves. And  so  when  for  a  moment  he  forsakes 
humanity  and  turns  to  nature,  it  is  that  most  human 
of  Nature's  elements,  the  sea,  with  its  absorbing 
passions  and  furies,  its  persistence,  its  incorrigible 
ugliness,  its  majestic  beauty,  its  sadness,  its  change- 
fulness,  and  above  all,  its  isolation,  that  becomes 
for  him  almost  a  god  after  the  Greek  fashion,  pos- 
sessing in  its  heart  even  the  passions  of  men,  but 
confined  by  no  law,  ruled  by  no  relentless  morality, 
persuaded  from  an  expression  of  its  desire  by  no 
equal  voice. 

There  are  no  people  in  D'Annunzio's  novels,  just 
as  there  are  no  plots,  and  scarcely  even  a  story. 
His  men  and  women,  his  peasants  and  young  Roman 
patricians,  are  only  real  in  so  far  as  they  are  of  little 
importance,  in  so  far  as  he  has  spent  but  little  pains 
on  them.  Of  his  men,  Andrea  and  Giorgio,  and  Tullio, 
and  Cantelmo — yes,  even  the  hero  of  '  II  Fuoco ' — 
are  but  expressions  of  the  same  soul,  almost  of  the 
same  body,  expressions,  if  you  will,  of  the  author's 
self,  but  also  of  the  whole  world,  as  we  know  it,  of  the 
men  of  our  own  day,  of  men  as  they  must  have  been 


86  ITALY   OF  TO-DAY 

yesterday,  as  they  will  be  to-morrow;  not  in  their 
strength,  scarcely  ever  that,  but  in  their  weakness,  and 
in  their  desires,  and  in  their  temptations,  to  which  it 
is  necessary  that  they  should  succumb,  so  that  one 
rinds  in  them  no  heroes  at  all,  scarcely  even  reason- 
able people,  but  certain  aspects  of  very  life,  where 
people  do  not  usually  rise  above  the  implacable  cir- 
cumstances of  their  lives,  and  are  not  too  much  in 
love  with  chastity  or  asceticism  of  any  sort,  and  do 
not  concern  themselves  very  often  with  the  necessity 
of  resistance  to  evil,  or  desire,  which  come  to  them 
almost  always  as  friends  with  promises.  And  as  all 
these  things  come  to  man  not  outwardly  at  all,  there 
is  but  little  action  in  this  book,  and  one  feels  some- 
thing at  the  least  of  that  isolation  which  is  to  become 
more  pronounced  in  the  '  Innocente,'  and  complete 
and  never  to  be  broken  at  all  in  the  'Trionfo.' 
And  it  is  in  a  moment  of  profound  emotion,  of  dis- 
gust almost,  at  the  ridiculous  figure  cut  by  the  pilgrims 
at  the  shrine  of  the  Madonna,  a  scene  which  perhaps 
to  one  less  scornful  of  humanity,  less  cruel,  would  not 
have  appeared  as  ridiculous  at  all,  that  D'Annunzio 
speaks  to  us  really  honestly  from  behind  the  mask  of 
Giorgio  Aurispa  in  '  The  Triumph  of  Death.' 

It  cannot  be  [he  says]  that  his  being  had  its  roots  in  that 
soil ;  he  could  have  nothing  in  common  with  this  multitude, 
which,  like  the  majority  of  animal  species,  had  already  at- 
tained to  its  definite  and  fixed  type.  .  .  .  He  was  as  much 
a  stranger  to  these  people  as  though  they  were  a  tribe  of 
South  Sea  Islanders,  as  much  an  alien  to  his  country  and 
his  native  soil  as  he  was  to  his  family  and  his  childhood's 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  87 

home.  .  .  .  That  dream  of  asceticism  which  he  had  con- 
structed with  so  much  splendour  and  adorned  with  so  much 
elegance,  what  was  it  but  another  expedient  for  warding  off" 
death  ?  You  must  train  your  mind  to  avoid  Truth  and 
certitude  if  you  would  live.  Renounce  all  keen  experience, 
rend  no  veils,  believe  all  you  see,  accept  all  you  hear.  Look 
not  beyond  the  world  of  appearances  created  by  your  own 
vivid  imagination.     Adore  the  illusion. 

It  is  thus  in  reality  he  would  counsel  us ;  so  that 
one  comes  to  see  that  it  is  not  Truth  for  which  we 
seek  but  Beauty,  and  not  Beauty  perhaps  entirely, 
but  creative  power.  So  in  another  place  he  can 
say  :— 

"You  think  too  much,"  she  cried;  "you  pick  your 
thoughts  to  pieces.  I  daresay  you  find  them  more  attrac- 
tive than  me,  because  your  thoughts  are  always  new,  always 
changing,  whereas  I  have  lost  all  novelty  for  you.  In  the 
first  days  of  our  love  you  were  less  introspective,  more 
spontaneous.  You  had  not  acquired  a  taste  for  bitter 
things  then,  because  you  were  more  lavish  with  your 
kisses  than  your  words.  If,  as  you  say,  words  are  such 
an  inadequate  form  of  expression,  why  make  so  much  use 
of  them — you  often  use  them  cruelly." 

And,  indeed,  D'Annunzio,  like  Giorgio  Aurispa,  is 
intensely  cruel  and  without  pity,  utterly  scornful, 
never  appeased,  keeping  his  anger  for  ever  against  a 
humanity  that  has  displeased  and  disgusted  him. 

He  describes  the  plucking  of  a  living  dove  with  an 
exactness  that  is  wonderful  and  needless.  His  de- 
scription  of  the  pilgrimage  in  the  '  Trionfo '   is  one 


88  ITALY   OF   TO-DAY 

of  the  most  terrible  things  he  has  written,  yet  it  is 
horrible  too,  for  he  makes  no  sign  of  pity,  he  sees 
with  the  eyes  not  of  a  man  but  of  a  god  or  a  devil, 
and  is  eternally  scornful  of  poor  people  who  were 
worthy  of  tears,  who  must  have  called  forth  the  tears 
of  a  greater  man.  So  he  became  brutal,  and  sees  a 
suffering  human  being  only  as  an  object  for  ridicule, 
for  scorn ;  sees  the  cripple  as  a  barbarian  boy  might 
see  him,  and  the  unsound  of  mind  as  an  example  of 
Nature's  humour.  His  manner  of  describing  the 
aunt  of  Giorgio  in  the  '  Trionfo '  is  an  example  of 
what  I  mean,  and  not  an  extreme  instance  by  any 
means.  So  one  sees  the  pose  of  the  cynic,  perhaps 
his  most  natural  attitude,  becoming  the  most  fre- 
quent of  all  his  poses,  utterly  destroying  his  insight 
and  his  creative  power,  till,  as  in  the  '  Fuoco,'  he 
flies  over  the  sky  himself,  an  object  for  men  and 
angels,  having  exposed  not  his  own  soul  alone  to  the 
gaze  of  a  world  he  has  hated.  So  I  find  him  guilty 
of  a  deep  and  ingrained  cruelty,  that,  as  I  think,  he 
will  never  quite  be  able  to  forget,  to  unlearn  ;  for  is 
not  cruelty  the  real  malady  at  the  heart  of  the  sen- 
sualist, and  has  D'Annunzio  not  told  us,  almost  with 
a  great  boast,  that  sensuality  has  claimed  him  and 
held  him  for  its  own  ? 

It  was  his  aunt  Gioconda.  .  .  .  She  was  his  father's 
eldest  sister,  and  about  sixty  years  of  age.  She  was  lame 
from  the  effects  of  a  fall  and  somewhat  stout,  but  with  an 
unwholesome  stoutness — pale  and  flaccid.  Wholly  absorbed 
in  religious  exercises,  she  lived  her  own  life  shut  away  from 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  89 

the  rest  of  the  family  on  the  upper  floor  of  fhe  house, 
neglected,  unloved,  regarded  as  semi-imbecile.  Her  world 
was  made  up  of  sacred  pictures,  relics,  emblems,  symbols ; 
her  sole  occupation  religious  practices,  sighing  out  her  life 
in  the  monotony  of  prayer  and  enduring  the  cruel  tortures 
imposed  on  her  by  her  greediness — for  she  adored  sweet 
things,  turning  in  disgust  from  any  other  kind  of  food,  and 
very  often  she  had  to  go  without.  Giorgio  therefore  was 
high  in  favour  with  her  because,  whenever  he  came  home 
he  never  failed  to  bring  her  large  quantities  of  sweetmeats. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "mumbling  through  her  poor  old  tooth- 
less jaws — "  Well,  so  you  have  come  back  !  Eh  !  come 
back  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  half  timidly,  not  knowing  what  else  to 
say,  but  there  was  a  gleam  of  evident  expectation  in  her 
eyes.  Giorgio  felt  his  heart  contract  with  a  pang  of  pity. 
This  poor  creature,  he  thought,  who  has  sunk  to  the  last 
depths  of  human  degradation — this  miserable  bigoted  old 
sweet-tooth  is  connected  with  me  by  the  insuperable  tie  of 
blood.     She  and  I  belong  to  the  same  race. 

"  Well,"  she  repeated,  seized  with  obvious  anxiety,  and 
her  expression  grew  almost  impudent. 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Gioconda,  I  am  so  sorry,"  he  answered  at  last 
with  painful  effort,  "  I  quite  forgot  to  get  your  sweets  this 
time." 

The  old  lady's  face  suddenly  changed  as  if  she  were  going 
to  be  ill,  the  light  died  out  of  her  eyes.  "  Never — mind," 
she  said  brokenly. 

"  But  I  will  get  you  some  to-morrow,"  Giorgio  hastened 
to  console  her ;  "  I  can  get  some  easily — I  will  write " 

Aunt  Gioconda  rallied.  "  You  can  get  them  at  the 
Ursuline  convent,  you  know,"  she  said  hurriedly. 

A  pause  ensued  during  which  she  no  doubt  enjoyed  a 
foretaste  of  the  delight  of  the  morrow  ;  for  judging  by  the 


90  ITALY   OF  TO-DAY 

little  gurgling  noises  in  her  throat,  her  toothless  mouth  was 
apparently  watering  at  the  prospect. 

Is  that  true  ?  If  so,  it  ought  never  to  have  been 
written,  at  least  by  a  man  or  woman.  In  Hell's 
library,  no  doubt,  such  cruel  scorn  of  foolish  or 
bestial  men  and  women  is  welcomed ;  on  our  earth 
are  we  not  all  too  nearly  approaching  the  grave — in 
which  be  sure,  could  we  but  see  ourselves,  we  should 
appear  ridiculous  enough,  and  desire  for  our  poor 
bones  a  little  pity  from  the  living — for  such  betrayal 
as  that,  for  such  scorn  as  that  ? 

And  it  is  not  only  in  such  passages  that  D'An- 
nunzio  accuses  himself  of  cruelty;  for  '  II  Fuoco,' 
his  last  book,  is,  it  appears  to  me,  scarcely  anything 
more  than  a  long  torture  from  beginning  to  end  of 
a  woman  whom  one  is  continually  on  the  point 
of  recognising  by  a  man  one  is  never  in  doubt  of 
for  a  moment.  In  this  book  the  Egoist  has  for 
once  obtained  entire  command,  so  that  art  and 
workmanship,  passion,  laughter,  tears,  are  forgotten, 
are  never  really  thought  of  at  all,  so  absorbed  is 
the  author  in  expressing  himself;  in  which  object, 
I  think,  he  scarcely  succeeds  at  all,  showing  us, 
indeed,  instead  of  a  man  a  human  monster,  very 
often  ridiculous,  whose  mad  or  silly  passions  or 
freaks  of  mind  he  does  not  scruple  to  label  genius 
to  an  astonished  world. 

Still  it  is  not  in  such  vagaries  of  a  great  mind 
that   we   must  look   for   the   expression   of  the   real 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  91 

D'Annunzio,  but,  I  think,  in  the  marvellous  and 
quiet  pages  of  the  'Innocente'  and  in  the  '  Trionfo' 
itself.  Of  all  his  women,  and  they  are  all  adorable, 
I  love  best  her  he  has  named  "  Turris  Eburnea,"  the 
divine  Giuliana.  But  in  truth  she  is  no  tower  of 
ivory,  save  in  that  her  body  is  very  white  and  sweet, 
for  she  is  full  of  the  sensuous,  and  almost  dreamy 
desire  of  life,  loving  and  desirable  and  tender  and 
in  despair  and  almost  reconciled  with  death.  But 
indeed,  like  his  men,  his  women  are  almost  always 
the  same  woman,  with  or  without  that  profounder 
sensuality  which  crowns  Ippolyta  above  Elena  Muti 
as  queen  of  harlots. 

And  this  woman,  sweeter  than  the  shoulders  of  the 
mountains,  desirable  and  desirous,  trips  through  all 
his  books  to  the  mournful  music  of  the  castanets  or 
the  melodies  of  spring  or  autumn,  or  the  thrumming 
of  the  blood  in  the  ears,  when  she  has  succeeded  in 
driving  us  mad  for  love.  She  comes  to  us  first  as  the 
Duchess  Elena,  and  having  given  us  what  we  desired, 
leaves  us  still  unsatisfied  as  the  pale  and  dear  woman 
of  Siena,  Donna  Maria.  And  she  appears  to  us 
again,  more  desirable  than  ever,  as  Giuliana  Hermil, 
Tullio's  wife,  of  the  white  and  flower-like  body,  whose 
secrets  we  learn  always  with  surprise,  whose  misfor- 
tunes only  make  her  dearer  to  us  than  before.  And 
last  of  all,  stripped  naked,  her  body  marked  with  the 
bruises  of  love,  in  full  womanhood,  with  red  and 
clinging  mouth  and  feet  of  clay,  we  see  her  crashing 
down  to  death  locked  in  her  lover's  arms,  keeping 


92  ITALY   OF   TO-DAY 

always  life  in  her  remembrance,  whilst  he  has  for- 
gotten it.  There  are  no  women  out  of  Shakespeare 
so  profoundly  feminine.  George  Meredith's  girls  are 
girls,  and  sometimes  borrow  more  than  a  little  from 
his  delightful  boys.  But  place  them  for  a  moment 
beside  D'Annunzio's  women  and  they  would  show 
their  uncouthness,  their  shyness,  their  masculine 
powers  of  speech  or  strength  or  abruptness  of  manner 
too  well  to  be  untroubled  by  the  beauty  of  these 
we  have  learned  to  know  as  a  lover  knows  his 
mistress. 

And  last  of  all,  in  these  beautiful  and  mysterious 
pages  of  '  Le  Vergini  delle  Rocce,'  we  meet  those 
three  Princesses,  Massimilla,  Anatolia,  and  Violante. 
Massimilla,  who  knows  that  "  the  shape  of  her  lips 
forms  the  living  and  visible  image  of  the  word  Amen." 
Anatolia,  who  possesses  "  the  two  supreme  gifts  that 
enrich  life  and  prolong  it  beyond  the  mission  of 
death."  Violante,  whose  hair  weighs  heavier  on  her 
brow  than  a  hundred  crowns,  who  has  dazed  herself 
with  perfumes.  In  this  book  of  exquisite  prose  one 
finds  the  achievement  of  the  highest  poetry.  Scarcely 
to  be  read  without  emotion  or  hurriedly  at  all,  it 
appeals  to  us  as  some  majestic  and  imperial  dream. 
Yet  there  is  nothing  but  truth  in  the  book,  a  truth  far 
more  profound  and  necessary  than  any  of  the  little 
obvious  obscenities  or  indecencies  that  have  in  fiction 
at  any  rate  almost  usurped  the  very  name  of  Truth 
herself.  These  three  solitary  princesses  are  no  fable, 
but  real  beings,  born  in  an  old  land,  in  a  time  that 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  93 

is  in  love  with  change,  that  is  scornful  of  old  things 
and  its  own  past,  and,  like  the  youngest,  looks  for 
glory  to  the  future. 

After  all,  we  live  in  a  world  that  shrinks  all 
day  long,  and  maybe  in  the  night  too,  from 
death.  Let  us  hug  to  us,  then,  Art  at  least 
together  with  the  brief  charm  of  the  world  and 
the  passing  glory  of  the  Hills.  Content  only  with 
perfection ;  the  proper  state  of  mind  after  creation 
being,  as  one  likes  to  remember,  that  it  was  very 
good. 

D'Annunzio  has  written  six  plays  of  varying  beauty, 
interest,  and  power.  Two  only  of  these  are  at  all 
known  in  England — viz.,  "The  Dead  City"  and 
"  Gioconda  "  ;  of  the  "Dream  of  a  Morning  of 
Spring"  and  the  "Dream  of  an  Autumn  Sunset' 
we  know  nothing,  as  they  have  not  yet  been 
translated  into  either  French  or  English.  Of  his 
last  splendid  tragedy,  in  verse,  "  Francesca  da 
Rimini,"  it  is  almost  impossible  to  speak  save 
in  terms  of  deep  admiration.  But  on  a  night 
I  shall  not  forget  in  the  glorious  and  splendid 
theatre  on  the  Viminal  Hill  in  Rome,  I  heard 
Duse  speak  the  magnificent  and  sad  lines  that 
D'Annunzio  has  written  for  her  who  has  made 
Hell  as  dear  as  Heaven.  It  was  not  a  friendly 
house.  The  Roman  people,  never  in  history  re- 
markable for  perfect  taste,  satisfied  its  contempt 
for  the  work  of  a  man  recognised  all  over  Europe 
as  one  of  the   greatest   men    of  letters  of  our  day, 


94  ITALY   OF   TO-DAY 

by  stamping  and  shouting  continually  whenever  their 
slow  and  vandal  minds  were  puzzled  or  disgusted  by 
the  beauty  of  the  verse.  It  was  scarcely  a  pleasant 
impression  one  had  of  Beauty  in  the  hands  of  the 
crowd.  Yet  as  the  first  act  proceeded,  almost  in 
spite  of  itself  the  crowd  was  compelled  to  be  silent, 
and  the  glorious  verse  passed  over  it  and  van- 
quished it  and  swept  it  away,  till  at  the 
close  of  a  long  and  perfect  page  shouts  of  "  Bello !  " 
"  Bello  !  "  rang  through  the  theatre,  and  the  beast 
with  innumerable  heads  was  cowed — nay,  even  loving 
for  the  moment  to  him  who  had  conquered  it  with 
beauty.  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  speak  of  "  Fran- 
cesca  da  Rimini "  as  a  critic.  The  night  I  saw  it 
and  heard  for  the  first  time  D'Annunzio's  verse 
spoken  by  an  artist  was  one  of  intense  excitement. 
It  was  the  first  representation  of  the  play,  which  had 
twice  been  postponed.  All  Rome  was  at  the  Cos- 
tanzi  to  see  D'Annunzio's  triumph  or  failure.  There 
were,  it  was  very  evident,  two  parties  in  the  house : 
those  who  wished  his  success  and  those  who  above 
all  things  desired  his  failure.  These  two  factions 
were  continually  at  each  others'  throats.  Even  the 
critics — and  they  came  from  Russia  and  from  France, 
from  all  Italy,  and  from  Germany  and  England 
— were  hostile  or  friendly,  it  was  impossible  to  be 
otherwise  than  excited.  Magnificently  staged,  it  was, 
I  think,  really  owing  to  the  acting  that  it  was  not 
a  greater  success  than  it  proved  to  be.  La  Duse 
is  not  what  she  was  even  five  years  ago,   and  her 


GABRIELE   D'ANNUNZIO  95 

methods  are  and  always  were  naturalistic,  yet  in  this 
play  she  was  more  stagey  than  I  have  ever  seen  her 
before.  Salvini,  who  played  Paolo,  on  the  other 
hand  was  classical  in  his  method,  so  that  really 
it  seemed  to  me  that  it  was  Francesca  rather  than 
Paolo  who  was  as  it  were  the  guilty  one ;  that 
indeed  Paolo  had  very  little  to  do  with  the 
matter,  he  was  so  little  moved,  so  unconcerned, 
even  when  caught  in  the  very  arms  of  Francesca 
by  his  brother  Malatesta  lo  Sciancato,  Francesca's 
husband. 

And  D'Annunzio  too,  in  writing  this  play,  has 
not  treated  it  romantically  as  one  would  have  ex- 
pected, but  psychologically,  so  that  we  find,  or  seem 
to  find,  that  he  has  analysed  and  laid  bare  the  very 
soul  and  inner  motives  of  the  characters,  and,  as 
indeed  in  all  his  plays,  one  seems  rather  to  be 
reading  a  novel  than  to  be  watching  the  action  of 
a  play.  There  seemed  to  me,  too,  to  be  more  than 
a  suggestion  of  "  Tristan  " — yes,  Wagner's  "  Tristan  " 
— in  a  play  that  was  fulfilled  always  with  desire  and 
the  inevitable  mastery  of  passion.  But  I  will  say 
no  more.  "  Francesca  da  Rimini "  seemed  to  me 
to  be  almost  as  beautiful  as  anything  he  has  written. 
To  be,  also,  something  new  in  his  work,  written 
as  it  is  in  a  classical  language,  in  verse  that  he  has 
desired  "  shall  not  be  too  unworthy  of  Dante." 

"  Sogno  d'un  Mattino  di  Primavera  " — a  "Dream 
of  a  Morning  in  Spring  " — is  a  play  written  probably 
after  a  study  of  Maurice   Maeterlinck,   and  it  is   to 


96  ITALY   OF  TO-DAY 

be  noticed,  not  in  his  plays  alone,  that  D'Annunzio 
is  always  strongly  influenced  by  the  most  unlikely 
people.  Nietsche  has  influenced  him  strongly,  and 
the  Russians,  and  even  Wagner  and  Maeterlinck. 
It  is  a  curious  story,  as  lovely  as  horrible,  that  might 
perhaps  have  been  omitted  by  Boccaccio  from  the 
'  Decameron '  owing  to  its  morbidness,  or  its  horror, 
told  as  those  stories  were,  we  may  remember,  not 
far  from  the  dying  and  the  terror  of  great  misfortune. 
Isabella,  the  beautiful  wife  of  the  Duca  of  Poggio- 
Gherardi,  is  mad.  For  her  lover,  a  young  lord, 
was  killed  as  he  lay  in  her  arms,  on  her  breast,  by 
the  duke  her  husband,  and  she,  drenched  in  his 
blood,  still  held  him  close,  and  at  sunrise  they 
found  her  mad.  That  is  the  simple  and  morbid 
story  of  a  play  that  is  certainly  not  the  least  beauti- 
ful of  all  D'Annunzio's  work.  And  one  gathers  as 
the  play  proceeds  that  Isabella  has  been  sent, 
together  with  her  sister  Beatrice,  away  into  the 
forest  to  a  villa,  there  to  remain  under  the  care 
of  the  doctor,  that  he  may  if  it  be  possible  cure 
her.  So  he  banishes  from  her  sight  everything 
that  is  sad,  and  the  poppies  are  no  longer  suffered 
to  grow  in  the  corn-fields,  nor  are  there  any  red 
roses  to  be  seen  in  a  world  that  for  Isabella  must 
for  the  future  be  green  only,  with  the  leaves  of  the 
trees  and  the  grass  and  the  whole  forest  life.  And 
it  is  really  in  her  becoming  one  with  this  green  life 
that  the  solution  of  the  play  seems  to  lie.  And  there 
is  in  this   play,  as  in   "  Gioconda,"    a  curious   half- 


GABRIELE   D'ANNUNZIO  97 

Shakespearean  creature,  wholly  delightful — Virginio — 
who,  like  La  Sirinetta  in  the  "  Gioconda,"  stands 
really  outside  the  action  of  the  play,  hears  and  sees 
all  that  is  passing  so  inevitably,  but  is,  as  it  were, 
untouched  by  it,  a  little  lower,  a  little  higher — who 
knows? — than  the  human  race — than  the  characters 
of  the  play,  chiefly  concerned  with  listening  to  the 
tragedy  of  a  world  by  which  he  is  moved  so  little. 
Ah,  it  is  impossible  within  the  limits  of  a  single 
chapter  on  the  works  of  D'Annunzio  generally  to 
do  justice  to  the  fantastic  beauty  of  what,  after 
all,  is  almost  as  nothing  beside  the  "  Trionfo,"  "  La 
Gloria,"  or  "  La  Citta  Morta." 

The  "  Dream  of  an  Autumn  Sunset "  is  really  not 
a  play  at  all  but  a  vision.  The  terrible  and  im- 
possible scenes  of  lust,  and  blood,  and  glory,  which 
can  scarcely  be  realised  in  the  mind,  would  be 
ridiculous  on  the  stage,  before  a  public  that  shrinks 
from  blood  as  from  the  very  secret  of  Death.  The 
immense  conflagration  with  which  this  play  closes 
is  certainly  a  piece  of  glorious  imagination,  but  the 
play  as  a  whole  is  excessive  in  its  very  intention,  and 
can  scarcely  have  been  written  in  the  saner  moments 
of  an  author  who,  after  all,  is  living  in  a  reasonable 
world. 

It  remains,  then,  to  discuss  "  La  Gloria,"  and  I 
will  say  at  once  that  in  many  respects,  and  especially 
because  of  its  magnificent  symbolism,  this  plav  seems 
to  me  the  most  remarkable  that  D'Annunzio  has  yet 
written.     It  is  really  a  picture  of  Rome — yes,  Rome 

a 


98  ITALY   OF   TO-DAY 

to-day.  For,  as  I  read  "  La  Gloria,"  Cesare  Bronte, 
who  is  dying  and  passing,  courageous  to  the  last, 
impervious  to  new  ideals,  fighting  to  the  end  those 
ideas  that  are  destroying  him,  Cesare  Bronte  is  the 
Pope — the  Papacy;  while  Ruggero  Flamma  —  the 
elect  one,  he  who  has  been  chosen  by  the  people  and 
has  allied  himself  with  La  Gloria,  whom  in  the  end 
La  Gloria  kills — is  the  New  Rome,  the  Third  Rome, 
the  kingdom  that  the  people  chose  with  so  much 
enthusiasm.  I  do  not  think  it  is  possible  to  give  a 
clear  account  of  this  extraordinary  play  without  re- 
producing it  almost  word  for  word.  One  finds  in  it 
a  new  character — a  character  entirely  new  in  drama 
or  indeed  in  Art — "  La  Folia,"  the  crowd,  the  multi- 
tude. The  play  opens  as  it  closes,  with  this  tremend- 
ous character  governing  the  issues  of  the  play  and 
of  life,  till  it  brings  about  its  own  destruction, 
shouting  for  the  head  of  Ruggero  Flamma,  the  elect 
one,  its  chosen  leader,  whom  La  Gloria  slays  after 
kissing  him  upon  the  forehead  and  the  lips.  And  can 
any  one  who  has  read  this  play  ever  really  forget  that 
terrible  monster  and  its  awful  cry,  "  La  sua  testa, 
la  sua  testa,  gettaci  la  sua  testa  "  ? 

La  Comnena,  or  La  Gloria,  it  is  the  same,  is  talking 
with  Ruggero  Flamma. 

"  You  have  longed  for  me,  it  was  for  me  you  waited,"  she 
says. 

"  I  looked  for  Fame,"  he  answers. 

"  La  Gloria  mi  somiglia,"  she  says. 

The  Crowd.   Death  to  Flamma !   death  to  Flamma ! 

Flamma  (to  La  Comnena).     Who  are  you  ?  who  are  you  ? 


GABRIELE    D'ANNUNZIO  99 

La  Comnena.   Listen  !  [She  goes  to  the  window. 

The   Crowd.  The   Empress !    the    Empress !       Death    to 
Flamma  !    death  to  Flamma  ! 

[She  goes  to  Flamma  and  kisses  hi?n  on  the  eyelids  and 
on  the  mouth,  a?id  then  drives  her  dagger  through 
his  heart. 
La  Comnena.  Listen  !  listen  ! 

The   Crowd.  The  Empress  !    the    Empress  !       Kill    her ! 
kill  her! 

La  Comnena.   Listen  !  Ruggero  Flamma  is  dead. 

[There  is  a  moment  of  silence,  and  then  a  long  indis- 
tinct roar  from  the  multitude. 
La  Comnena.  Ruggero  Flamma  is  dead.     I    have   killed 
him,  I,  even  I  myself,  have  killed  him. 

The  Crowd.  His  head  !  his  head  !  throw  us  his  head  ! 

[The  sacred  city  is  in  a  great  shadow,  a?id  to  her,  as 
she  turns  insolently  to  withdraw  the  stiletto,  there 
comes  a  moa?iing  that  becomes  one  vast  and  terrible 
cry. 
His  head  !  his  head  !  throw  us  his  head  ! 


So  ends  a  play  that  is,  I  say  it  advisedly,  without 
parallel  in  our  time  for  significance  and  terror.  For 
here  for  the  first  time  an  artist  has  attempted  that 
study  not  only  of  his  own  time  but  of  Demos,  that 
ugly  and  merciless  being  which  is  in  our  own  day 
really  master  of  the  situation,  who,  even  as  the  other, 
hails  La  Gloria  as  the  Empress. 

In  the  "Gioconda"  and  the  U  CittaL  Morta"  we 
have  two  plays  that  probably  contain  the  finest 
dramatic  work  of  D'Annunzio.  But  he  who  runs 
may  read,  for  Mr  Arthur  Symons'  translations  are 
so  excellent  that  they  leave  nothing  to  be  desired. 


ioo  ITALY   OF  TO-DAY 

The  English  translations  of  D'Annunzio's  work  are, 
as  a  rule,  very  bad ;  but  the  two  plays,  "  The  Dead 
City  "  and  "  Gioconda,"  are  almost  perfect  examples 
of  the  art  of  translation,  and  this  is  easily  tested  by 
the  ordinary  reader,  for  in  "The  Dead  City"  Mr 
Symons  has  translated  some  passages  of  Sophocles 
as  they  have  never  before  been  Englished  :  I  wish  he 
would  give  us  the  whole  of  the  '  Antigone,'  for  we 
have  not  even  a  readable  translation  of  that  master- 
piece, in  English. 

Of  the  novels,  that  translated  the  best  is  the 
'  Virgins  of  the  Rocks.'  The  '  Trionfo  '  probably 
could  never  have  been  properly  translated  owing  to 
the  seventeen-year-old  English  miss  and  the  sixty- 
year-old  Mrs  and  Mr;  and  the  same  unfortunate 
habit  of  blushing  on  the  part  of  the  young  and 
old  alike  of  our  race  would  prevent  '  II  Piacere ' 
also  from  being  translated  fully  and  honestly. 
However,  all  these  can  be  read,  not  in  the  entirety, 
but  perhaps  as  much  so  as  is  desirable,  in  the 
French. 

What  D'Annunzio's  future  may  be  I  cannot  say. 
That  he  will  accomplish  something,  and  not  a  little 
thing,  I  believe ;  but  since  he  is  now  thirty-eight 
years  old,  it  is  time  that  he  came  down  from  the 
clouds  and  forgot  such  visions  as  the  "  Dream  of  an 
Autumn  Sunset  "  or  the  "  Episcopo  &  Co.,"  and 
turned  towards  a  living  world,  not  less  wonderful, 
in  which,  as  he  has  already  shown  us,  his  true 
inspiration  lies. 


■     '     ■ 


■ 


The   Cities   of   Italy 


I. 


AT   GENOA. 

TO  look  on  Genoa  from  afar  is  to  see  one  of  the 
fairest  sights  of  the  world.  And  come  to  her 
how  you  may — by  the  coast  road  through  Mentone 
and  Ventimiglia,  San  Remo  and  Savona,  or  by  sea 
from  Marseilles,  or  from  Turin  and  Milan  over  the 
mountains,  down  through  the  olive -gardens  by  the 
byways — even  from  a  long  way  off  she  appears  as 
the  very  perfect  celestial  city.  Enthroned  in  a 
theatre  of  mountains  with  the  Mediterranean  at  her 
feet,  she  is  like  a  proud  princess,  her  white  brow 
crowned  with  the  immaculate  blue  of  her  sky  and 
the  gold  that  has  stained  her  air  and  made  it 
precious. 

"Protinus  aerii  mellis  ccelestia  dona 
Exequar," 

as  Virgil  says  ;  and  indeed  he  is  not  the  only  one 
who  has  noticed  this  fragrant  and  precious  quality 
in  the  air,  so  that  the  meanest  material,  as  stucco 
or  whitewash,  or  the  rose  colour  of  the  houses,  or 
the  ragged  garments  of  the  people,  seem  to  be  all 


104  GENOA 

of  some  precious  material  —  the  churches  and  the 
Pharos  of  alabaster  perhaps,  and  the  poor  cotton 
of  a  woman's  dress  of  silk  or  Venice  velvet.  Mr 
Evelyn,  in  his  dedication  of  the  '  Fumifigium '  to 
King  Charles  II.,  notices  the  peculiar  joys  of  Italy 
in  the  perfumes  of  orange,  citron,  and  jasmine 
flowers,  which  may  perfectly  be  smelt  for  divers 
leagues  seaward. 

And  she  is  of  the  true  South  :  the  bells  of  the 
mules  carrying  firewood  and  fuel  wake  one  early  on 
one's  first  morning ;  and  ever  afterwards  one  cannot 
think  of  her  save  as  a  city  of  the  East,  with  some- 
thing Biblical  about  her,  something  that  we  have 
all  longed  for  from  our  tiniest  childhood, — a  blaze  of 
white  light  full  of  dust,  a  pleasant  wearying  heat,  a 
sound  of  everlasting  summer.  Ah,  over  our  fields  at 
Easter,  in  early  spring,  have  there  not  always  come 
to  us,  perhaps,  in  the  vulgar  noise  amid  which  Christ 
dies  every  year  in  England  while  the  people  make 
holiday,  or  in  the  relief  and  joy  of  Easter  Day,  some 
tameless  desire,  some  unappeasable  longing  for  the 
light  and  dust  and  heat  and  atmosphere  of  Palestine 
or  the  South,  some  covetousness  just  for  once  of 
a  weariness  of  the  sun  ? 

Well,  it  was  Holy  Week  when  first  I  came  to 
Genoa.  The  air  was  heavy  with  the  scent  of 
orange-blossom,  the  smell  of  ships  came  up  from 
the  sea,  the  oranges  among  the  blossom  on  the  trees 
against  the  dark  green  foliage  were  like  burning 
lamps    in    broad   sunlight ;    in    the    deep   shadow   of 


THE    GATE   OF   ITALY  105 

the  doorways  women  sat  surrounded  by  innumer- 
able flowers,  white  and  gold  and  red.  Amid  all  the 
clangour  and  noise  there  was  a  hush  and  expect- 
ancy. Quite  by  chance  I  passed  out  of  the  heat 
and  noise  of  the  crowd  in  the  so  narrow  streets 
into  a  church.  It  was  almost  dark,  but  there  were 
many  candles  burning.  The  murmur  of  the  city 
came  in  through  the  heavy  curtain,  and  far  off  I 
heard  the  Latin  of  prayers.  Suddenly  a  voice  louder 
than  the  rest  chanted  the  Antiphon — 

O  vos  omnes  qui  transitis  per  viam,  attendite  et  videte  si 
est  dolor  sicut  dolor  meus. 

Ah  !  I  knew  then  that  I  had  found  it — the  land 
of  heart's  desire,  the  place  I  had  longed  for  all  the 
days  of  my  life ;  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  very 
Church  herself,  distracted  and  alone  on  Calvary  or 
by  the  Tomb  in  the  garden  of  Joseph,  had  asked 
that  question,  "  O  all  ye  who  pass  by,  behold  and 
see  if  there  be  any  sorrow  like  unto  my  sorrow  ?  " 
and  for  the  first  time  I  realised  how  far  I  was  from 
England,  in  how  different  a  land,  though  doubtless 
I  might  have  heard  the  words  often  enough  in 
London,  where  they  would  have  meant  almost 
nothing  at  all.  And  so  I  too  heard  the  young 
boy  priest  pass,  singing  clear — 

"Jesus,  the  son  of  Mary,  has  been  slain; 
O  come  and  fill  his  sepulchre  with  flowers* 

Outside  was  the  world  at  its  fairest :    the  splendour 


106  GENOA 

of  that  antique  sea,  the  spirituality  of  the  everlast- 
ing mountains,  the  calmness,  the  ineffable  comfort 
of  the  soft  sky.  There  was  a  kind  of  bloom  on  the 
city  of  palaces ;  and  over  towards  the  lighthouse  a 
great  ship  put  out  to  sea,  perhaps  with  eyes  bent 
forwards,  unconscious  of  the  beautiful  city,  and  I, 
a  sentimental  traveller,  at  least  a  century  behind 
my  time,  was  captured  by  the  moment,  and  would 
have  given  all  the  world  had  it  been  mine  to  pro- 
long that  short  hour  so  that  I  might  understand 
all  this  fading  glory  of  the  world. 

It  is  perhaps  in  some  such  mood  as  this  that  the 
fortunate  traveller  may  find  Genoa  the  Proud,  lying 
on  the  bosom  of  the  mountains,  whiter  than  the  foam 
of  her  waves,  a  true  daughter  of  the  South.  To  come 
to  her  in  youth,  in  the  spring,  for  the  first  time  is,  I 
think,  one  of  the  great  experiences  of  life,  not  to  be 
surpassed  by  any  later  passion  in  Rome  or  Naples  or 
Florence,  that  ever  after  seem  but  as  sisters  of  the 
Fairest.  Yet  I  think  Genoa  gives  of  her  best,  at  first 
and  from  afar.  In  her  narrow  and  seldom  splendid 
streets  one  loses  the  vision,  and  has  to  be  content  with 
a  very  inferior  picturesque.  She  was  fair,  and  has 
had  many  lovers ;  from  afar  she  is  still  desirable. 

Yet  one  remembers  sometimes,  as  one  saunters  on 
the  ramparts,  the  story  of  those  vast  multitudes  that 
came  from  all  Europe  to  embark  at  Genoa  for  Pales- 
tine, to  rescue  the  Holy  City  from  the  Turk.  What 
vision  that  they  ever  after  saw,  what  mirage  in  the 
desert,  what  dream  of  the  armies  of  the  Prince  of  Life, 


THE    PORT   FOR   PALESTINE  107 

can  have  compared  with  their  sight  of  Genoa  from  the 
sea,  when  it  was  too  late  to  return  ?  And,  indeed,  in 
all  history  one  can  find  no  more  pathetic  tale  than 
that  of  those  7000  children  who  came,  under  the 
command  of  a  boy  of  thirteen  years,  "  clamouring  for 
transports  "  to  take  them  also  to  the  fight  for  the 
sepulchre  of  Jesus,  the  son  of  Mary.  What  became  of 
them  ?  In  what  old  age  did  they  forget  the  vision 
when  they  first  came  in  sight  of  Genoa,  still  a  long 
way  off?  Were  there  not  some  among  that  army  of 
babies  who  believed  that  indeed  it  was  to  Jerusalem 
they  had  come  ?  Were  not  these  marble  houses 
indeed  the  very  palaces  of  Herod  and  the  High  Priest  ? 
Was  not  the  first  shining  church  the  very  Temple 
where  Christ  was  found  by  Madonna  sorrowing  ? 
What  became  of  them  all  ?  I  have  never  been  able 
to  discover.  Yet  in  that  age  of  iron  and  of  gold, 
when  kings  came  and  sailed  away  to  the  sunrise,  and 
countless  soldiers,  princes,  light  women,  monks  and 
nuns,  priests  and  merchants,  loafers  and  dreamers 
followed  after  to  die  in  the  desert,  there  is  nothing  so 
magnificent  as  that  boy  of  thirteen  and  his  army  of 
babies,  who,  remembering  something  done  for  love  of 
them  long  ago,  had  come  over  the  mountains  only  to 
find  the  impassable  sea. 

Life  unencumbered  by  rule  thrusts  itself  on  one's 
notice.  A  street  of  palaces  ends  in  a  brilliant  slum,  a 
vista  of  bedizened  squalor  leads  one's  gaze  at  last  to 
the  splendour  of  the  sea.  Yet  though  one  could 
imagine  no  angel  daring  to  pass  through  any  London 


io8  GENOA 

street,  here  even  in  the  narrowest  places  one  would 
see  him  without  surprise,  so  near  to  life  has  one  come 
in  a  city  with  a  blue  sky. 

And  in  Genoa,  wherever  one  may  go,  it  is  the 
sweetness  and  nobility  of  nature  rather  than  of  art 
that  haunt  one's  footsteps,  the  sky  that  is  as  lovely 
as  the  stars,  the  mountains  that  enfold  the  beautiful 
city,  the  sea  that,  before  all  seas,  before  all  other 
things,  is  the  most  precious  thing  in  the  world. 

So  often  is  the  traveller,  in  these  days  when  sunset 
follows  so  fast  on  sunrise,  at  his  work  of  sight-seeing 
very  early  in  the  morning,  as  Mr  Ruskin  among  others 
has  directed,  that  it  would  appear  to  be  superfluous  to 
say  more  of  the  aspect  of  a  place  that  for  me  at  least 
is  a  kind  of  vision.  Yet  when  one  remembers  that  the 
sight-seer's  day  is  not  as  the  day  of  other  mortals,  that 
it  passes  with  a  tragic  swiftness  and  brings  an  intoler- 
able weariness,  that  it  is  passed  for  the  most  part  in 
churches  where  he  never  prays  or  is  even  quiet  for  a 
little,  so  that  his  angel  may  tell  him  something 
perhaps  of  this  very  place  ;  or  it  is  passed  in  galleries 
where  the  innumerable  Madonnas,  Aphrodites,  and 
long-faced  saints  irritate  him  who  is  too  busy  listening 
to  the  guide  or  studying  his  book,  to  understand  or 
care  for  their  tears  or  gestures  or  side-long  looks, — one 
is  tempted  for  a  moment  to  suggest  that  a  day  or  two 
spent  in  lounging  on  the  ramparts  or  upon  the  moun- 
tains, or  even  a  few  hours  stolen  from  the  sunlight  and 
spent  in  a  meditation  in  some  church,  would  give  the 
traveller  more  of  the  live  Genoa,  more  of  the  true 


LEONARDO'S   JOHN    THE   BAPTIST     109 

mood  of  Italy,  than  any  number  of  days  or  weeks  given 
up  to  rushing  from  one  palace  to  another,  from  one 
church  to  another,  or  from  the  arcades — where  one  is 
entranced  by  the  sedate  and  almost  sombre  appear- 
ance of  the  living — to  the  Campo  Santo,  where  one  is 
disgusted,  almost  for  the  first  time,  by  the  vulgarity 
and  vanity  of  the  dead.  I  think,  indeed,  that  the 
sailors  with  their  bearded  lips  and  the  strange  life  of 
the  port  are  more  valuable  to  us  than  even  Leonardo's 
John  the  Baptist  in  the  Palazzo  Rosso.  He  holds  no 
cross  as  his  prototype  does  in  the  Louvre,  but  is  like 
the  Bacchus  by  the  same  artist  that  brought  to 
Gautier's  mind  Heine's  notion  of  the  gods  in  exile 
"  who  to  maintain  themselves  after  the  fall  of  paganism 
took  employment  in  the  new  religion."  "  All  this  joy 
and  gay  laughter,"  says  Heine,  "  have  long  been 
silent ;  now  in  the  ruins  of  the  ancient  temples  the  old 
Greek  deities  still  dwell,  but  they  have  lost  their 
majesty  by  the  victory  of  Christ,  and  now  they  are 
sheer  devils  who  hide  by  day  in  gloomy  wreck  and 
rubbish,  but  by  night  rise  in  charming  loveliness  to 
bewilder  and  allure  some  heedless  wanderer  or  daring 
youth."  Was  it  for  this  the  Baptist  preferred  the 
desert  to  a  king's  house  ?  Unfortunate  gods  !  Is  it 
not  very  possible  that  Dionysus  should  have  enjoyed 
one  more  transformation  ?  That  Christianity,  after 
all,  is  but  an  expression  of  the  same  worship  in  a 
different  way,  the  same  gods  seen  from  a  different 
point  of  view  ?  Well,  it  is  with  some  such  thought, 
some  such  suggestion  as  this,  that  one  looks  on  the 


no  GENOA 

beautiful  figure  in  the  Palazzo  Rosso  that  Leonardo 
seems  to  have  hesitated  to  name  either  St  John 
Baptist  or  Dionysus  the  Dreamer,  the  Deliverer. 

And  after  one  has  heard  the  story  of  Andrea  Doria, 
and  (if  one  is  American)  admired  the  statue  of 
Columbus,  and  (if  one  is  English)  learned  how 
Richard  Coeur  de  Lion  on  his  way  to  the  wars, 
finding  that  Genoa  had  given  the  "eighty  galleys' 
in  which  he  and  the  King  of  Spain  with  their  armies 
set  out  for  the  Holy  Land,  adopted  the  battle-cry  of 
the  Genoese,  v  For  St  George,"  which  we  are  wont  to 
consider  our  own  special  invocation, — after  one  has 
wondered  at  these  things,  it  is,  I  think,  ever  as  the 
city  of  the  South,  the  gate  of  Italy,  that  one  thinks  of 
Genoa  rather  than  as  the  supposed  birthplace  of 
Columbus,  or  the  home  of  Admiral  Doria,  or  the  port 
for  Palestine.  Nowhere  in  Italy  is  anticipation 
doomed  to  be  so  entirely  unfulfilled.  Seen  from  afar 
as  the  city  of  dreams,  she  proves  on  closer  acquaint- 
ance a  kind  of  splendid  but  unbearable  nightmare, 
more  noisy  than  Rome,  as  filthy  as  Naples,  less 
homely  than  Florence.  Yet  through  life  she  appears 
to  me,  through  the  mist  of  morning,  whiter  than  snow, 
or  stained  by  the  sunset  and  violet  crowned,  the 
Proud  Princess  of  the  South,  the  warden  of  innumer- 
able dreams. 


T 
i. 


AT   PISA. 

ONE  is  often  tempted  at  Pisa  to  think  that 
Italy  is  as  she  was  long  ago,  a  land  of  long 
unhurried  days,  fulfilled  even  in  their  more  brilliant 
moments  with  a  kind  of  leisure.  For  the  traveller 
is  convinced,  after  he  has  seen  the  little  group  of 
buildings  on  the  edge  of  the  city  to  the  north,  that 
Pisa  is  done  with,  that  she  holds  nothing  else  that 
is  precious  or  worth  his  time,  which,  after  all,  has 
been  snatched  so  uneasily  from  business,  and  in 
which  he  is  to  see  not  one  city  or  two,  but  all 
Italy.  But  I  think,  indeed,  that  to  see  Pisa  truly, 
is  to  attain  to  a  kind  of  culture  quite  other  than 
is  necessary  to  appreciate  Florence  or  Venice  or 
Rome,  or  even  the  works  of  art  that  they  contain. 
For  there  is  a  silence,  and  an  old  world  quiet  and 
repose  about  the  place  that  is  only  to  be  found  in 
the  smaller  cities  that  the  traveller  usually  passes 
by  without  so  much  as  a  thought  of  that  old  world 
in  which,  be  sure,  they  cut  a  not  ignoble  figure. 
Pisa   holds   only   such   things   as   have   lasted  for  a 


ii2  PISA 

long  time — as  quiet,  sleep,  an  antique  order,  a  few 
churches,  a  few  men,  a  few  women,  a  few  girls  and 
boys,  some  old  priests,  and  death.  Somehow,  in 
spite  of  the  railway,  she  has  been  left  stranded  in 
her  immense  plain,  within  sight  of  the  marble 
mountains  whose  daughter  she  is.  And,  after  all, 
it  is  only  new  and  unessential  things  she  lacks ;  she 
has  the  everlasting  necessities  of  the  soul  of  man, 
among  which  her  miracle  picture  is  not  the  least. 
Walter  Pater's  picture  of  her  as  she  was  in  the 
days  of  Marcus  Aurelius  describes  her  very  beauti- 
fully as  she  is  to-day. 

The  partly  decayed,  pensive  town  [he  writes],  which  still 
had  its  commerce  by  sea  and  its  fashion  at  the  bathing 
season,  had  lent,  at  one  time  the  vivid  memory  of  its  fair 
streets  of  marble,  at  another  the  solemn  outline  of  the 
dark  hills  of  Luna  on  its  background,  at  another  the  living 
glances  of  its  men  and  women,  to  the  thickly  gathering 
crowd  of  impressions  out  of  which  his  notion  of  the 
world  was  forming.  .  .  .  The  great  temple  of  the  place, 
as  he  could  remember  it,  on  turning  back  once  for  a  last 
look  from  an  angle  of  his  homeward  road,  .  .  .  the  harbour 
and  its  lights,  .  .  .  the  sailors'  chapel  of  Venus,  and  the 
gilded  image  hung  with  votive  gifts,  the  seamen  them- 
selves, their  women  and  children,  who  had  a  whole 
peculiar  colour  world  of  their  own ;  the  boys'  superficial 
delight  in  the  broad  light  and  shadow  of  all  that,  was 
mingled  with  the  sense  of  power,  of  unknown  distance,  of 
the  danger  of  storm  and  possible  death. 

Well,  one  still  sees  the  great  temple  of  the  place, 
and  the  river  and  its   lights,   and   the   little   chapel 


A   QUIET   CITY  113 

of  the  sailors,  once  dedicated  to  Venus  now  to 
Madonna;  one  still  finds  a  great  delight  in  the 
women  and  children,  and  the  broad  light  and 
shadow  of  unknown  distance,  and  the  danger  of 
storm  and  possible  death.  And,  coming  from  the 
noise  of  Genoa,  above  all  one  finds  peace. 

Some  barrier,  miraculous,  invisible,  guards  Pisa 
from  the  world,  so  that  one  wanders  up  and  down 
her  streets  in  a  kind  of  ecstatic  happiness,  with  a 
kind  of  liberty,  since  there  is  no  necessity  to  guard 
the  soul  from  any  roughness  or  vulgarity,  where  all 
is  so  calm,  so  beautiful.  Yet  even  in  this,  perhaps  the 
last  of  the  invincible  cities,  one  finds  traces  of  the 
handiwork  of  the  enemy ;  so  that  even,  as  in  some 
aspects  Pisa  lures  one  into  security  within  her  old 
walls,  or  her  Cathedral,  or  her  magnificent  Campo 
Santo,  so  in  other  moods  one  sees  in  her  a  horrible 
modernity  that  despises  the  old  things  and  is  swiftly 
driving  them  away.  As  one  looks  from  the  win- 
dows of  the  Hotel  Victoria  along  the  Lung'  Arno, 
on  the  wrinkled  image  of  the  city  in  the  yellow 
waters  of  the  river,  one  sees  in  that  reflection, 
between  the  line  of  houses,  a  strip  of  the  blue 
sky  full  of  light,  that  is  still  the  most  beautiful 
thing  to  be  seen  in  Pisa*  and  that  has  remained 
unchanged  for  more  than  a  thousand  years.  So 
our  good  God  has  placed  thus  much  of  immortal 
beauty  beyond  the  reach  of  the  vandals. 

It  is  of  course  to  the  wonderful  group  of  buildings 
to  the  northward  of  the  city,  just  within  the  walls, 

H 


ii4  PISA 

that  the  curious  traveller  will  first  turn  his  steps. 
Standing  there  as  though  left  stranded  upon  some 
shore  that  life  has  long  deserted,  they  are  symbols 
of  all  that  has  had  to  be  given  up  in  order  that 
we  may  follow  her  in  her  modern  whims.  Coming 
as  one  does  out  from  the  narrow  cloistered  streets 
into  the  space  and  breadth  of  the  Piazza  del  Duomo, 
one  is  almost  blinded  by  the  sudden  light  and  glory 
and  whiteness  of  the  sunlight  on  these  buildings  that 
seem  to  be  made  of  moonstone  or  ivory  intricately 
carved  and  infinitely  noble.  And  as  one  stands  there, 
with  the  tide  of  life  running  away  from  them,  though 
so  slowly,  through  the  streets  of  Pisa  and  out  over 
the  bridges  where  the  trains  are  marked  Milano, 
Firenze,  Roma,  Torino,  it  almost  seems  as  though 
this  Church  and  Baptistery,  the  Campo  Santo  where 
the  cypresses  are  dying  in  the  earth  of  Calvary,  and 
the  Bell  Tower  that  alone  has  leaned  towards  life 
to  follow  her,  have  been  really  deserted  and  for- 
gotten by  a  world  that  has  taken  other  gods  to 
its  heart. 

On  entering  the  Campo  Santo  one  is  surprised, 
I  think,  that  it  should  prove  to  be  so  beautiful. 
Out  of  the  dust  and  heat  of  the  Piazza  one  comes 
into  a  cool  cloister  that  surrounds  a  quadrangle  open 
to  the  sky  in  which  a  cypress  or  two  still  lives.  But 
it  is  before  the  fresco  of  the  Triumph  of  Death  that 
one  stays  longest,  trying  to  understand  the  dainty 
treatment  of  so  horrible  a  subject.  Those  fair  ladies 
riding  on  horseback  with  so  brave  a  show  of  cavaliers, 


THE    CAMPO    SANTO  115 

even  they  too  must  come  at  last  to  be  just  dust,  is  it  ? 
or  like  that  swelled  body  that  seems  to  taint  even 
the  summer  sunshine  lying  there  by  the  wayside, 
and  come  upon  so  unexpectedly  ?  What  love -song 
was  that  troubadour,  fluttering  with  ribbons,  singing 
to  that  little  company  under  the  orange-trees,  cava- 
liers and  ladies  returned  from  the  chase  or  whiling 
away  a  summer  afternoon  playing  with  their  falcons 
and  their  dogs  ?  The  servants  have  spread  rich 
carpets  for  their  feet,  and  into  the  picture  trips  a 
singing-girl,  who  has  surely  called  the  very  loves 
from  Paradise  or  from  the  apple-trees  covered  with 
blossom  where  they  make  temporary  abode.  What 
love-song  were  they  singing  ere  the  music  was  frozen 
on  their  lips  by  a  falling  leaf  or  chance  flutter  of  bird 
life  calling  them  to  turn  and  behold  Death  is  here  ? 

It  is  in  such  a  city  as  this  that  meditation  upon 
death  loses  both  its  sentimental  and  its  ascetic  aspect 
and  becomes  almost  wholly  aesthetic,  so  that  it  can 
never  be  before  this  fresco  that  such  contemplations 
can  become  as  it  were  "a  lifelong  following  of  one's 
own  funeral."  For  the  gentle  melancholy  and  desire 
for  life  that  one  experiences  in  quiet  places  are  in 
reality  but  a  process  of  recreation,  a  new  accumu- 
lation of  emotion  and  enthusiasm,  the  coming  of 
reinforcements  of  one's  energy.  So  in  this  still  and 
lovely  place,  as  one  passes  the  old  fading  frescoes 
and  the  magnificent  sarcophagi  or  urns  or  statues, 
sheltered  as  they  would  need  to  be  at  home  from 
the  sea  air,  one  likes  to  remember  that  it  was  a  sight 


n6  PISA 

of  these  ancient  and  pagan  tombs  that  inspired  the 
great  Pisano  to  produce  his  most  precious  works. 
His  son,  Giovanni,  who  built  this  airy  cloister  so 
daintily,  found  too  among  the  treasures  he  was 
enclosing,  life  to  breathe  into  his  own  work. 

The  sentimental  traveller,  now  somewhat  out- 
moved,  may  desire,  indeed  I  confess  I  did,  to  see 
this  place  by  moonlight,  nor  will  he  be  disappointed 
by  so  strange  a  transformation.  Amidst  a  silence 
less  profound  than  in  the  sunlight,  by  reason  of  the 
sibilant  rustling  of  even  the  loneliest  night,  it  seems  as 
though  all  the  great  or  splendid  people  who  are  buried 
here,  or  who  have  worked  here,  have  assembled  for 
some  great  office,  as  Compline  or  belated  Evensong. 
The  keen  sea-air  penetrates  and  sends  a  chill  along 
the  blood.  The  fantastic  shadows  of  the  dying 
cypresses  dance  on  the  walls  like  a  very  company 
of  spirits,  and  Orcagna's  great  fresco  seems  more 
dainty  than  ever,  more  ravishing  a  story  of  the 
romance  of  man.  But  even  the  sentimental  traveller 
is  not  quite  dead,  and,  worse  still,  not  quite  silent 
either.  I  suppose  the  books  that  have  been  written 
by  the  wise  on  the  buildings  of  the  Piazza  del  Duomo 
would  fill  a  long  shelf  in  my  library,  and  the  books 
written  by  the  foolish  all  the  sides  of  my  room.  One 
might  as  well  try  to  describe  the  face  of  one's  angel 
as  these  holy  places  of  Pisa,  which  are  catalogued  in 
every  guide-book  ever  written.  So  I  will  withhold 
my  hand  from  desecrating  further  that  which  is  still 
so  lovely.      Only   if  you   would   hear   the   heavenly 


MADONNA  UNDER  THE  ORGANS  117 

choirs  before  death  has  his  triumph  over  you,  go  by 
night  into  the  baptistry,  having  bribed  some  choir- 
boy with  a  paper  lira  to  sing  for  you,  and  you  shall 
hear  from  that  marvellous  roof  a  thousand  angels 
singing  round  the  blessed  feet  of  San  Raniero.  Nor 
shall  you  omit  to  hear  the  huntsman's  Mass,  Missa 
dei  Cacciatori,  at  Santa  Maria  della  Spina  on  the 
Lung'  Arno,  where  in  mediaeval  days  Mass  was  said 
as  early  as  three  or  four  o'clock  so  that  the  hunts- 
men might  be  off  betimes,  but  armed  against  all  evil 
chance  by  Christ  himself. 

If  it  is  chiefly  as  the  city  of  the  Leaning  Tower 
that  Pisa  is  known  to  the  vulgar,  and  to  the  learned 
as  the  birthplace  of  Niccolo  and  Giovanni  Pisano; 
to  the  Italian  peasant  and  noble  (if  such  remain) 
within  the  commune  of  Pisa  it  is  as  the  dwelling- 
place  of  La  Madonna  sotto  gli  Organi,  most  powerful 
and  celebrated  of  miracle  pictures  in  Tuscany. 
There  in  the  Cathedral  she  dwells,  the  blessed 
protectress  of  Pisa — nay,  of  all  poor  banished  sons 
of  Eve ;  nor  till  lately,  for  five  hundred  years,  had 
any  one  seen  her  face.  It  is  true  that  in  1607  a 
certain  Archbishop,  more  impudent  and  proud  than 
is  usual  even  with  Archbishops,  resolved  to  remove 
the  seven  veils  that  covered  the  marvellous  picture, 
and  indeed  nearly  succeeded ;  but  as  he  was  about 
to  remove  the  seventh  veil  (so  irreverent  and  proud 
was  he),  death  swiftly  claimed  him,  and  his  accom- 
plices— certain  prebendaries  and  workmen — became 
blind.      But    at    last    there    came    others    more    im- 


n8  PISA 

pudent  and  proud  than  he ;  and  in  that  terrible 
year  when,  it  is  said,  the  saints  shook  on  their 
thrones  for  the  safety  of  the  very  earth,  and  all 
devils  danced  in  their  own  place, — in  1789,  in  Dec- 
ember, on  the  thirteenth  (the  one  unfortunate  day  of 
that  blessed  month), — Duke  Peter  Leopold,  brother 
to  the  Emperor,  tore  off  the  seven  veils,  and  for 
the  first  time  for  five  hundred  years  a  mortal  gazed 
into  the  soft  eyes  of  "  Madonna  under  the  Organs." 
Good  God !  what  could  the  wretched  man  expect  ? 
What  power  in  heaven  or  earth  was  there  to  save 
him  from  the  awful  fate  that  befel  the  Archbishop 
and  his  "  lousy  prebendary "  ?  Reader,  I  know 
not.  For  what  I  know, — such  is  the  beneficence  of 
Heaven,  and  of  her  our  Blessed  Advocate,  Virgo 
Clemens,  Mater  Amabilis,  Janua  Cceli  (ora  pro 
nobis), — Duke  Peter  Leopold  died  in  his  bed  and 
went  no  lower  than  Purgatory,  where,  I  think,  all 
inquisitive  travellers  should  pray  for  him.  But  that 
he  had  the  narrowest  escape  in  the  world  of  utter 
disaster,  I,  with  my  hand  on  my  heart,  can  assert, 
since  on  May  29,  1897,  I  was  in  the  Cathedral  of 
Pisa  when  they  unveiled  Santa  Maria  sotto  gli  Organi 
in  honour  of  her  Coronation  Jubilee.  You,  too,  oh 
friend  Protestant,  were  honouring  in  that  same  year 
a  lesser  Queen  than  Regina  Angelorum,  therefore 
you  should  not  sneer.  It  was  just  after  the  Charity 
Bazaar  fire  in  Paris,  which  happened  on  the  fourth 
of  the  same  month ;  doubtless  this,  as  you  will  see, 
helped   the   disaster.      There   were    many   thousands 


MADONNA  UNDER  THE  ORGANS  119 

from  all  Tuscany  and  the  mountains  packtd  in  the 
Cathedral,  myself  among  them,  leaning  against  a 
pillar  near  the  great  bronze  west  door.  Suddenly 
some  one  shouted  "  Fire ! '  and  in  a  moment  that 
mass  of  people  was  struggling  madly  to  get  out  of 
the  Cathedral.  Fortunately  (I  lay  it  all  at  Madonna's 
feet,  I  was  one  of  the  few  who  disapproved  of  this 
repeated  unveiling,  though  not  for  orthodox  reasons), 
I  reasoned  with  myself,  as :  This  church  is  of  marble, 
and  therefore  a  great  time  must  go  by  before  it  is 
consumed ;  and,  said  I,  who  ever  heard  of  a  church 
being  burned  down  where  so  miraculous  an  Image 
dwells  ?  (I  was  wrong  in  both  arguments,  but  doubt- 
less She  sent  them ;  they  served  their  purpose.)  So 
I  stood  quite  still  behind  the  pillar,  embracing  it  so 
that  I  might  not  be  swept  away  by  the  crowd. 
How  strong  was  that  pillar  of  the  church,  divid- 
ing and  breaking  the  crowd  like  a  rock !  Cries  and 
shrieks  and  agony  filled  the  air,  while  I  said  Aves 
on  my  fingers  against  the  pillar  in  fear.  Some  nine 
persons  were  crushed  to  death  and  some  twenty- 
one  injured.  And  I  think  indeed  that  the  little 
child  of  two  years  old  that  had  been  knocked  out 
of  its  mother's  arms,  whom  they  found  laughing 
under  a  bench,  and  I,  were  the  only  persons  on 
that  terrible  day  who  were  not  very  much  afraid. 
The  child's  mother  gave  its  frock,  together  with  a 
glass  case  that  cost  a  heap  of  money,  to  St  Mary 
under  the  Organs,  for  the  escape  of  her  little  one; 
and  I — well,   my  gift    I    keep   to   myself.      To  this 


120  PISA 

day  when  I  think  of  Duke  Peter  Leopold  I  shiver. 
Therefore,  all  ye  who  pass  by,  forget  not  to  pray 
for  a  moment  at  the  altar  of  the  Madonna  of  Pisa, 
seeing  she  had  mercy  on  a  little  child  and  a  poor 
pilgrim  in  a  time  of  fear  and  great  danger. 

Ah,  do  not  be  in  too  great  a  hurry  to  leave  Pisa 
for  Rome  or  Florence.  They  have  waited  for  you 
now  more  than  a  thousand  years ;  let  them  wait  a 
day  or  two  longer,  while  you  wander  through  the 
King's  Park  towards  the  sea,  and  watch  the  light 
on  the  hills,  and  dream  on  the  top  of  the  famous 
tower  whence  you  shall  see  all  the  kingdoms  of  the 
world  and  the  glory  of  them.  It  may  well  be  you 
will  never  see  that  line  of  hills  again  ;  ah,  look  at 
them  carefully.  A  little  while  before  to-day  the 
most  precious  of  your  dreams  was  not  so  lovely  as 
that  spur  of  the  Apennines. 

"  lam  nox  inducere  terris 
Umbras  et  ccelo  diffundere  signa  parabat. 
.     .     .     Mali  culices  ranasque  palustres 
Avertunt  somnos,  absentem  ut  cantat  amicam 
Multa  prolutus  vappa  nauta  atque  viator 
Certatim.     Tandem  fessus  dormire  viator 
Incipit."    .    .    . 

So  be  it,  traveller,, 


Ill, 


AT   SIENA. 

BEFORE  all  others  Siena  is  the  typical  mediaeval 
city — not  without  joy.  It  has  been  the  pro- 
found mistake  of  our  democratic  age  to  think  in  its 
somewhat  sentimental  fashion  of  the  Middle  Age  as 
a  period  of  almost  unbroken  gloom.  But  indeed  of 
all  ages  of  the  world  I  ever  read  of  it  seems  to  me  to 
have  been  fulfilled  with  the  most  splendid  enthusiasm, 
profoundly  humorous  and  merry  too,  in  a  way  the 
Reformation  and  Renaissance  and  the  three  million 
and  four  differences  of  the  three  hundred  and  fifteen 
religious  sects  infesting  my  dear  land  have,  in  England 
at  least,  made  impossible  for  us. 

But  nowadays  one  does  not  come  to  Siena  to  be 
amused — at  least  I  suppose  not — but  to  be  instructed. 
And  there,  I  think,  indeed,  the  traveller  makes  his 
greatest  mistake.  Nothing  is  so  amusing  as  en- 
thusiasm, nor  is  anything  I  ever  saw  so  enthusiastic 
as  Italian  Gothic. 

And  Siena,  from  the  splendour  of  her  gates  to  the 
intangible  sweetness  of  her  Cathedral,  is  all  glorious, 


122  SIENA 

a  very  king's  daughter,  a  virgin  waiting,  not  in  sad- 
ness but  in  ecstasy,  for  the  bridegroom.  And  her 
joy  has  been  found  in  silence,  for  she  has  risen  up  out 
of  the  desert,  a  tower  of  passionate  glory,  and  her 
fountains  sing  her  canticle.  Fonte  Gaia  sings  of 
spring,  Fonte  Branda  of  the  wearying  summer,  Fonte 
Nuova  of  the  Resurrection,  Fonte  Ovile  "  Gloria  in 
Excelsis."  And  even  as  the  best  and  most  quiet  half 
of  our  lives  passes  away  in  a  dream,  "vitam  nobiscum 
dividit  somnus,"  as  Seneca  says,  so  it  is  in  such  a 
city  as  this,  fulfilled  with  a  temperate  silence,  that 
the  most  precious  hours  of  an  ever  anxious  life  are 
found  at  last.  For  it  would  be  impossible  to  die 
without  regret  while  so  much  beauty  lingers  in  the 
world,  nor,  since  our  angels  will  at  last  entice  us 
hence,  shall  we  be  surprised  at  the  loveliness  of  any 
celestial  city.  For  Siena  is  the  virgin  of  Italy,  Turris 
Eburnea,  and  sings  Magnificat.  All  the  splendour  of 
Rome  is  but  a  bubble  while  her  beautiful  white  body 
lies  upon  the  mountains.  I  am  content,  having  seen 
her,  for  ever  after  to  look  on  nothing  but  the  sky,  in 
the  which  I  may  mirror  her  enfolded  in  ineffable  peace, 
guarded  by  innumerable  angels  invisible,  whose  swords 
unscabbarded  meet  point  to  point,  beneath  which  dome 
of  flame,  in  the  attitude  of  prayer,  my  city  stands. 

It  is  to  the  cathedral  that  the  traveller  will  first 
turn  his  steps,  and  maybe  wisely.  For  there  one  sees 
a  new  creation  of  the  heart  of  man,  all  the  mystery 
and  passionate  groping  after  God,  all  the  fierce  desire 
of  unspoken  prayers  that  in  the  North  have  created 


THE    CATHEDRAL  123 

Amiens  and  Chartres  and  Beauvais,  curbed  and  ful- 
filled with  a  kind  of  magical  grace  and  sanity,  so  that 
one  remembers  rather  how  God  loved  the  world  than 
His  resolve  to  consume  it  in  a  moment,  and  destroy, 
who  knows,  us  too  with  the  wicked. 

Begun  in  the  year  1229  or  thereabout,  the  Cathedral 
of  Siena  is,  I  suppose,  the  most  perfect  piece  of  Italian 
Gothic  anywhere  to  be  found.  For  a  time  at  least 
the  Italians  had  forgotten  their  old  gods  and  remem- 
bered only  Jesus  of  Nazareth  and  Madonna  Mary. 
Yet  in  all  that  forgetfulness  there  remains  some 
glimmer,  some  suggestion,  of  that  older  civilisation  in 
a  grace  and  proportion  and  sanity  quite  foreign  to  the 
Cathedrals  of  France  and  Germany  and  England, 
where  there  was  neither  religion  nor  civilisation  to 
forget,  that  lends  a  new  sweetness  even  to-day  to 
Christianity  in  Italy.  Heaven  is  not  so  far  off  from 
us  in  Italy  as  in  England ;  one  does  not  grope  in  any- 
mysterious  gloom  after  a  terrible  God,  but  in  a  garden 
of  sweetly-coloured  marble  and  level  light  one  as  it 
were  walks  at  least  with  saints,  and  is  not  afraid  or 
mystified  at  all,  but  just  happy.  In  the  North  we  are 
so  serious,  so  gloomy  in  our  faith  :  here  they  have, 
as  it  were,  humanised  Christianity.  And  in  spite  of 
the  Northerner's  inevitable  dislike  to  any  sort  of 
familiarity  in  dealing  with  the  dead,  who  in  his 
gloomy  and  smoky  cities  he  has  forgotten  are  not 
dead  but  alive  for  ever,  he  cannot  but  be  moved  by  the 
evidence  all  about  him  of  the  way  in  which  the  Italian 
disdains  to  be  afraid  or  to  forget  them.     So,  remem- 


124  SIENA 

bering  they  are  indeed  alive,  he  asks  their  prayers  and 
paints  their  more  noble  or  wonderful  deeds  upon  the 
walls  of  God's  house,  and,  not  morbidly  or  with 
curiosity,  but  very  lovingly,  keeps  their  dust  about 
him. 

And  it  is  with  one  of  these,  long  dead  and  now  alive 
in  heaven,  that  in  Siena  one  is  almost  compelled  to 
live,  seeing  that  it  was  her  home. 

Born  in  Siena  in  1347,  St  Catherine  was  the 
daughter  of  Jacopo  and  Lapa  Benincasa,  who  had 
beside  twenty -four  other  children.  It  was  in  the 
Contrada  d'Oca,  in  the  valley  between  the  church  of 
San  Domenico  and  the  Duomo,  that  she  was  born,  in 
a  house  still  standing,  over  whose  door  are  written 
the  words,  "  Sponsae  Christi  Catherinae  domus."  In 
1367  she  received  the  habit  of  the  third  order  of  St 
Dominic,  and  from  that  time  earth  and  this  fair  city 
fell  away  from  her,  and  her  little  cell  became  for  her 
heaven  and  all.  It  was  in  silence  that  she  found  her 
great  teacher,  so  that  she  never  at  this  time  spoke 
to  any  one  save  God  and  her  confessor.  And  that 
mysticism  that  afterwards  enveloped  the  souls  and 
bodies  of  St  Teresa  and  St  John  of  the  Cross  seems 
also  to  have  come  to  her  and  conquered  her.  In  her 
contemplation,  vile  and  filthy  imaginings,  desperate 
thoughts  and  despicable  passions  fought  in  her  soul 
for  mastery,  while  she,  calm  and  a  virgin,  told  her 
beads  in  silence.  "  At  her  voice,  nay,  only  looking 
upon  her,  hearts  were  changed,"  and  with  a  kind  of 
genius  men,  by  the  time  she  was  twenty-four,  called  her 


SAINT   CATHERINE  125 

"  mother,"  and  her  confessors,  meeting  her  majestical 
eyes  under  those  straight  brows,  called  themselves  her 
sons,  as  they  were  indeed  already  her  disciples.  So 
unlearned  that  she  had  never  been  able  to  read  or 
write,  she  is  taught  by  a  miracle,  and  becomes,  as  all 
the  world  is  a  witness,  "a  writer  of  singular  beauty, 
force,  and  distinction." 

In  the  short  thirty -three  years  of  her  life  she 
changed  the  political  aspect  of  Europe,  and  her 
power  became  greater  almost  than  that  of  the 
Papacy  itself.  For  she  fulfilled  the  Dominican  ideal 
of  the  union  of  contemplation  and  labour.  In  all 
her  century  hers  is  the  most  splendid  figure :  Popes 
and  kings  shrink  into  insignificance  beside  this 
mystic  with  a  genius  for  politics,  who  at  any 
moment  of  her  life,  howsoever  splendid  or  successful, 
would,  how  gladly,  have  retired  into  the  silence  of  a 
tiny  cell.  And  it  was  from  her  unbroken  silence  in 
her  cell  in  Siena  that  she  came  one  day  of  spring, 
conquering  and  to  conquer.  It  was  she  who  was 
to  tame  the  implacable  enemy.  The  wearying  and 
terrible  wars  of  Guelf  and  Ghibelline  that  bolt  the 
Middle  Age  with  the  iron  of  their  noise  were  hushed, 
and  both  were  united  against  the  Holy  See.  She, 
but  a  girl,  a  visionary,  that  in  a  hundred  encounters 
had  possessed  herself  of  the  passion  of  infuriated 
mobs,  the  anguish  and  regret  of  the  dying,  the 
misery  of  a  little  world,  sick  and  plague-stricken, 
saw  the  banners  of  the  league  blazing  with  the 
splendid  and  impossible  word,  Libertas  ;  and  it  may 


i26  SIENA 

well  have  been  in  pity  for  mankind,  in  sympathy 
with  its  disappointments  and  follies  and  its  natural 
human  hopes,  its  ridiculous  and  touching  faith  in 
itself,  that  she,  never  doubting,  intervened  and  pre- 
vented Siena,  Arezzo,  Lucca,  and  other  cities  from 
joining  a  cause  so  sure  of  failure. 

The  Pope,  Gregory  XL,  far  away  in  Avignon,  a 
coward  and  a  fool,  had  at  last  found  a  champion 
before  whom  the  very  world  was  but  as  a  shadow. 
And  at  last  the  Florentines,  overcome  by  her  who 
had  so  lately  left  that  silence  where  God  dwells, 
asked  her  to  be  their  mediator  with  the  Pope.  At 
the  gates  of  Florence  she  was  met  by  the  chief 
magistrates,  who  sent  her  with  magnificent  honours 
before  them  to  Avignon. 

What  panoply  of  war  or  crusade,  what  defiance 
of  authority  in  the  name  of  liberty,  what  terror  of 
red  death,  can  match  in  nobility  and  splendour 
that  scene  so  long  ago  ?  A  girl,  scarcely  twenty- 
nine,  her  white  passionate  face  overruled  by  silence 
and  contemplation  and  communion  with  God,  goes 
forth  to  compel  the  Pope  to  return  to  Rome, 
utterly  without  fear  and  without  doubt. 

St  Catherine  came  to  Avignon  on  the  18th  June 
1376  ;  she  was  received  by  the  Pope  and  Cardinals. 
To  her  Gregory  XL  says,  "  I  put  the  affair  entirely 
in  your  hands,  only  I  recommend  you  the  honoui 
of  the  Church.  I  desire  nothing  but  peace."  Thus 
at  last  she  persuaded  him  to  return  to  Rome,  and 
yet  he  dared  not,  unless  she  held  his  hand:  so  that 


SAINT    CATHERINE  127 

we  find  that  she  met  him  at  Genoa  in  September 
of  that  year  and  led  him  into  Rome.  But  in  truth 
the  Florentines  desired  not  peace  but  war,  and  it 
was  only  after  a  most  terrible  struggle  that  she 
brought  peace  to  him  in  1378 ;  immediately  after 
she  returned  to  her  cell.  Yet  after  all  it  was  not 
in  peace  but  in  grief  and  tears  that  she  died  two 
years  later,  the  people  having  chosen  another  Pope, 
Urban  VI.,  and  knowing  this  "she  would  dissolve 
into  floods  of  tears."  Her  body  is  in  Rome  in  the 
church  of  Santa  Maria  Sopra  Minerva,  a  gloomy  place 
enough,  while  her  head  is  preserved  most  magically 
in  her  own  city,  in  the  Duomo. 

Having  so  briefly  and  imperfectly  sketched  her 
actions,  there  remain  over  thirty  -  three  years  of 
life  in  which  she  talked  with  Jesus  and  received 
indeed  from  His  very  hands,  which  the  nails  had 
pierced,  the  Blessed  Sacrament.  It  is  told  of  her 
how  that  one  Nicola  Tuldo  of  Perugia,  being  con- 
demned to  death,  and  he,  still  in  his  youth,  utterly 
refusing  even  for  a  moment  to  contemplate  so  hard 
a  fortune,  cursing  God  therefor,  and  refusing  all 
consolation,  she  "came  and  spoke  with  him;  whence 
he  received  such  comfort  that  he  confessed  and  made 
her  promise  by  the  love  of  God  to  stand  at  the  block 
beside  him  on  the  day  of  execution."  And  yet,  even 
after  he  had  looked  into  those  quiet  eyes,  he  feared 
the  great  enemy  so  that  he  prayed  the  Saint  to  stay 
with  him  that  he  might  die  content.  O  wonderful ! 
And  says   she,   "his  head  lay  on  my  breast.     Then 


128  SIENA 

I  felt  a  great  joy  within  me,  and  the  odour  of  his 
blood  rose  up,  and  I  said,  '  Comfort  thee,  my 
brother,  the  block  shall  soon  become  thy  marriage 
altar,  for  sure  I  will  stand  beside  thee.' "  And  so 
she  laid  her  white  neck  on  the  block  and  prayed 
for  his  soul  and  for  herself.  Then  came  Tuldo 
walking  "like  a  gentle  lamb,"  and  she  preceding 
him  he  seemed  content,  and  calling  the  names  of 
Jesus  and  of  Catherine  he  died ;  while  she  beheld 
his  soul  borne  by  the  angels  into  God's  love.  Then 
she  "  held  his  head  within  her  hands,  her  dress  was 
saturated  with  his  blood,  which  she  could  scarcely 
bear  to  wash  away,  so  deeply  did  she  triumph  in 
the  death  of  him  whom  she  had  saved."  That  is 
but  one  incident  in  a  life  almost  beyond  modern 
dreams.  "  Be  thou,  be  thou,  that  fragrant  flower 
spreading  its  fragrance  abroad  in  the  sweet  pres- 
ence of  God,"  she  wrote.  Well,  is  it  not  with  some 
such  refreshment  one  comes  even  to-day  from  her 
chapel  in  the  Duomo  ?  But  in  reading  that  story 
of  Tuldo,  contained  in  her  letter  to  Brother 
Raimondo  of  Capua,  it  is  not  only  the  ecstasy  of 
love  we  see  but  the  ecstasy  of  desire.  How  different 
perhaps  her  life  might  have  been  had  she  been  less 
convinced,  less  captured,  in  that  silence.  One  hears 
in  her  words  the  ecstatic  madness  of  the  profound 
voluptuary,  the  sensualist.  "  The  odour  of  his 
blood  rose  up,"  she  says,  and  in  her  simple  and 
wise  way  speaks  of  her  sensuality  as  of  a  mighty 
weapon,    "arming    oneself    with    one's    sensuality." 


SAINT   CATHERINE  129 

Nor  is  she  afraid,  for  she  says  to  the  Pope,  "  Be 
a  brave  man,  and  not  a  coward ;  "  and  to  the  King 
of  France  she  says,   "  I  will." 

Ah,  all  saints  beside  her  are  but  little  children ;  was 
it  not  she  who  wrote,  seven  hundred  years  ago,  "The 
intelligence  feeds  the  affections  —  who  knows  most 
loves  most,  and  he  who  loves  most  enjoys  most." 
One  follows  her  as  did  those  crowds  ages  ago,  even 
to-day,  because  one  must.  Ruled  by  her  will  and 
overcome  and  utterly  defeated,  we  see  "  a  vast  multi- 
tude clothed  in  sackcloth  and  in  purple,  in  iron  and  in 
gold,"  every  sort  of  person  comes  under  her  influence 
and  is  captured  and  a  slave  for  ever.  It  is  not  only 
Gregory  XL  and  Queen  Joanna  of  Naples  and  the 
King  of  France  that  are  overcome  by  her,  nor  male- 
factors like  Tuldo  nor  holy  men  like  Stephen,  but  all 
sorts  and  conditions  of  men  and  women,  nuns  and 
friars,  soldiers  of  fortune,  light  women,  and  citizens. 
And  in  a  vision  our  Saviour  presented  her  with  two 
crowns,  one  of  gold  and  the  other  of  thorns,  bid- 
ding her  to  choose.  Says  she,  "  I  desire,  O  Lord, 
to  live  here  always  conformed  to  thy  Passion  and  to 
find  pain  and  suffering  my  delight,"  and,  taking  the 
all -glorious  crown  of  thorns,  she  pressed  it  on  her 
brows,  loving  it  better  than  all  else  in  that  she  therein 
wore  even  what  He  had  worn,  for  her  too  among  the 
others. 

Reader,  before  so  lovely  a  saint,  so  glorious  a 
woman,  will  you  too  not  rest  contented  for  a  day  or 
so  ?     Ah,  but  I  have  not  told  you  a  hundredth  part  of 

I 


130  SIENA 

her  history.  She  is  a  thousand  times  more  glorious 
than  I  have  said  :  read  her  own  words,  and  you,  too, 
will  love  her  city  better  than  all  the  more  famous 
places.  And  it  is  here  in  Siena  you  should  think 
of  her,  not  of  our  little  day.  And  if  your  angel  should 
have  it  in  his  heart  to  give  you  the  happiness  of 
remaining  in  Siena  over  the  sixth  day  of  May,  you 
too,  O  son  or  daughter  of  the  North,  whence  we  have 
frightened  all  our  saints  ages  ago,  may  see  a  tiny 
remnant  of  her  lovers  that  still  worship  at  her  shrine, 
friars  and  nuns,  soldiers  and  light  women,  and  all 
sorrowful  people  and  oppressed,  whose  eyes  gush  out 
with  tears  before  her  who  changed  the  hearts  of  those 
who  only  looked  upon  her. 


IV. 


AT    ORVIETO. 

A  CITY  of  convents  and  monasteries,  exquisite,  of 
the  spirit,  apart  from  the  world,  to  be  compared 
only  with  a  vision  of  the  heavenly  city ;  such  is  the 
impression  the  traveller  receives  on  first  catching 
sight  of  Orvieto  from  afar.  Too  few  seek  her  in  her 
silence  and  her  solitude ;  for  the  many  the  more  re- 
sounding cities  suffice.  In  a  noisy  night  on  the 
railway,  distracted  by  innumerable  and  abortive 
dreams,  half-asleep,  half-awake,  in  all  the  agony  of 
dawn  in  the  train,  one  rushes  past  a  place  that  has 
little  to  offer  but  peace.  And  when  one  desires  the 
greatest  of  all,  and  is  so  near  to  her,  when  almost 
every  moment  one  expects  to  see  the  domes  and 
roofs  of  Rome  herself,  it  is  not  Orvieto  in  her  sim- 
plicity that  can  turn  us  from  the  goal  of  all  our  world, 
even  for  a  moment.  Yet  somehow  more  than  all 
the  modern  magnificence  and  trumpery  splendour  of 
the  Eternal  City,  Orvieto  in  her  antique  garments, 
with  her  spiritual  country  face,  very  like  one  of 
Raphael's   Madonnas,   has  for  us   the  gift  of  Italy. 


132  ORVIETO 

"  Imagine,"  says  Gabriele  D'Annunzio — "  Imagine 
a  rock  in  the  midst  of  a  melancholy  valley,  and  on 
the  top  of  the  rock  a  city,  so  deathly  silent  as  to  give 
the  impression  of  being  uninhabited — every  window 
closed — grass  growing  in  the  dusty  grey  streets — a 
Capuchin  friar  crosses  the  Piazza — a  priest  descends 
from  a  closed  carriage  in  front  of  a  hospital,  all  in 
black  and  with  a  decrepit  old  servant  to  open  the 
door ;  here  a  tower  against  the  white,  rain-sodden 
clouds — there  a  clock  slowly  striking  the  hour,  and 
suddenly,  at  the  end  of  a  street,  a  miracle — the 
Duomo." 

But  it  is  not  to  the  impatient  traveller — he  who 
stays  but  one  night  within  her  walls — that  this  city 
set  on  a  hill  under  the  soft  sky  will  reveal  her  secret ; 
but  to  him  who,  having  spent  sufficient  time  in  the 
silence  of  the  Cathedral,  has  cleansed  his  heart,  so 
that  he  may  understand  her  story.  You  might 
almost  say  that  within  her  walls  is  contained  the 
whole  Christian  mythos,  beginning  with  Genesis 
and  ending  with  the  Coronation  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin ;  the  centre,  the  climax,  the  supreme  mystery 
of  the  whole  being  the  tremendous  secret  of  the 
Doctrine  of  the  Blessed  Sacrament.  And  it  is  not 
in  the  Cathedral  alone  that  Orvieto  declares  to  us 
that  Christianity  has  conquered  a  reluctant  world, 
for  in  herself  she  is  a  monument  of  that  victory. 
In  the  Piazza  del  Duomo  there  are  four  buildings 
beside  the  Duomo  that  are  inevitably  connected 
with  the  Church,  and  so  with  Christ.     The  oldest, 


THE   PIAZZA   DEL    DUOMO  133 

the  Palace  of  the  Bishop,  stands  beyond  the  Cathedral, 
and  though  begun  in  977  and  enlarged  by  Adrian  IV. 
in  1151,  it  is  now  mainly  a  building  of  the  sixteenth 
century.  We  then  turn  to  the  Palace  of  the  Popes — 
Palazzo  Soliano,  that  with  the  decay  of  religion  has 
been  turned  into  a  museum — built  by  Boniface  VIII. 
in  the  end  of  the  thirteenth  century.  Beside  this 
palace  rises  the  Hospital,  built  in  the  end  of  the 
twelfth  century,  and  opposite  the  cathedral  itself  we 
find  the  Opera  del  Duomo,  built  in  the  fourteenth 
century,  a  magnificent  piece  of  work.  Thus  for 
Orvieto,  at  the  least  half  her  life  was  laid  up  in 
heaven,  where  also  her  treasure  was.  For  it  was  to 
a  miracle  that  she  owed  not  only  her  beauty  but  her 
true  being,  there  on  her  great  rock  above  her  melan- 
choly valley,  a  very  miracle  herself,  famous,  and 
holding  gifts.  And  even  as  she  owed  her  splen- 
dour to  the  blood  of  Christ,  so  she  seems  to  have 
desired  the  blood  of  man,  staining  her  streets  with 
that  mystical  and  shameful  river  of  life  in  the  month 
of  August  1312,  and  at  other  times  when  civil  war 
reigned  in  the  streets  and  many  hundreds  of  citizens 
perished.  And,  whether  under  the  Monaldeschi,  or 
the  Popes,  or  the  Neapolitan  king,  always  her 
streets  ran  with  blood — it  is  as  it  were  the  very 
symbol  of  herself. 

But  after  a  week,  or  even  a  few  days,  spent  within 
her  walls,  it  is  always  to  the  Cathedral  that  the 
traveller  will  return  to  be  satisfied  with  its  beauty 
and  its  dreams.     Built  in  order  to  commemorate  one 


i34  ORVIETO 

of  the  most  famous  of  miracles — that  of  Bolsena,  the 
story  of  which  Raphael  has  painted  on  the  walls  of 
the  Vatican — the  Cathedral  is  itself  perhaps  one  of 
the  mightiest  miracles  of  the  world.  And  this  it 
may  be  is  scarcely  strange,  for  the  miracle  the 
Cathedral  commemorates  is  the  divine  expression 
of  the  truth  of  the  doctrine  of  transubstantiation — 
the  actual  Sacrifice  of  the  Mass.  After  all,  has  not 
this  very  idea  divided  Christendom  ?  It  is  scarcely 
strange  then  that  it  should  have  created  even  the 
Duomo  of  Orvieto.  It  happened  in  this  wise  among 
a  faithful,  simple,  and  childlike  people,  who  were  in 
love  with  the  story  of  Christ  and  His  Mother.  A 
certain  German  priest — ah,  Martin  Luther,  another 
of  your  countrymen — had  dared  to  doubt  the  doctrine 
of  the  Real  Presence  of  Christ  in  the  Blessed  Sac- 
rament. Utterly  tired  and  weary  of  his  doubts,  dis- 
turbed by  his  uncertainty,  he  set  out  for  Rome,  so 
that  there,  in  the  capital  of  his  religion,  he  might 
decide  at  last  or  be  persuaded.  For  it  began  to 
appear  plain  to  him  that  if  this  that  he  presumed 
to  doubt  were  indeed  untrue  other  things  he  had 
scarcely  thought  of  as  yet  might  be  untrue  also.  It 
was,  therefore,  we  may  well  believe,  in  a  certain 
sadness  of  heart  that  he  set  out  for  Rome,  and, 
"  resting  one  day  on  the  shores  of  the  beautiful  lake 
of  Bolsena,"  which  is  but  twelve  miles  from  Orvieto, 
he,  at  the  request  of  the  villagers,  celebrated  a  Mass 
for  them  in  the  Church  of  Santa  Cristina,  which  is  with 
us  even  to  this  day.     And  though  Santa  Cristina  is 


THE    MIRACLE   OF    BOLSENA  135 

rejected  by  all  authority,  she  has  her  lovers  in  the 
sweet  Umbrian  country  who  will  never  forget  her, 
and  perhaps  for  their  love  she  brought  these  things 
to  pass  —  being  in  Heaven  at  the  time.  For  it 
happened  that  as  our  German  doubter  (Raphael  says 
he  was  but  a  lad)  elevated  the  Host,  more  than  ever 
troubled  in  his  mind  concerning  the  doctrine  that 
none  of  those  simple  folk  in  the  church  there  thought 
of  doubting  for  a  moment,  he  saw  drops  of  red  blood 
upon  the  Corporal,  "  each  stain  severally  assuming 
the  form  of  a  human  head,  with  features  like  the 
'Volto  Santo,'  or  portrait  of  our  Saviour."  O 
wonderful !  What  shame  in  his  heart,  what  anger 
at  his  doubts,  what  love,  what  certainty,  what  glad- 
ness !  Overcome  by  fear  and  reverence,  he,  sinner 
that  he  was,  dared  not  consume  the  Holy  Species, 
but  with  eagerness  and  love  reserved  the  Body  of 
our  Lord,  and  travelling  in  haste  to  Orvieto,  where 
the  Pope  then  was,  he,  not  without  shame,  confessed 
to  him  not  only  the  miracle  that  had  happened  but 
his  doubts  also.  The  Bishop  of  Orvieto  at  the 
command  of  the  Pope  hastened  to  Bolsena,  and 
brought  from  the  altar  of  Santa  Cristina  the  Sacred 
Host  and  the  Blessed  Corporals.  The  Pope  himself, 
Urban  IV.  it  was,  passed  with  all  the  splendid  clergy, 
with  joy,  with  music,  in  procession  to  meet  him  who 
indeed  bore  Christ  along  with  him. 

Thus  was  instituted  the  magnificent  festival  of 
Corpus  Christi,  whose  office  St  Thomas  Aquinas, 
the  Angelical  Doctor,  composed.     The  Sacred  Host 


I36  ORVIETO 

rests  to-day  in  the  Capella  del  Corporale  in  the 
Cathedral,  surrounded  by  the  magnificent  frescoes  of 
Ugolino  di  Prete  d'llario,  that  tell  the  story  to  the 
world. 

Thus,  in  the  simple  days  of  old,  miracles  happened 
and  men  believed,  and  chased  the  devil  down  the 
vistas  of  his  own  damnable  doubts.  To  us  valiant 
shopkeepers  disputing  about  the  reality  of  matter  it 
is  doubtless  nothing  but  a  fairy  tale  at  best;  some 
of  us  even  may  be  so  strict  as  to  call  it  a  lie — yet  I 
can  but  hope  they  are  few*  For  we,  too,  have  heard 
with  our  ears,  and  our  fathers  have  declared  unto  us 
the  noble  works  done  in  their  day  and  in  the  old  time 
before  them.  After  all,  I  would  rather  be  wrong  with 
St  Francis  than  right  with  Martin  Luther. 

In  order,  therefore,  to  celebrate  this  miracle,  men 
built  the  Cathedral  of  Orvieto — nor  is  there  anything 
more  marvellous  extant  upon  earth.  Fra  Angelico 
did  not  hesitate  to  spend  his  genius  on  her  walls. 
Signorelli,  who  is  so  much  greater  than  his  fame,  in 
1499  began  to  paint  the  vaulting  and  the  walls.  And 
amid  all  the  magnificence  and  richness  of  the  work 
around  one,  it  is  again  and  again  to  his  work  that  the 
traveller  will  return — always  with  joy. 

Born  at  Cortona  in  1440,  Vasari  declares  that  in  his 
day  his  works  were  more  esteemed  than  those  of  any 
other  master.  It  is  strange  that  they  should  have 
fallen  into  such  neglect  in  our  own.  It  is  the  human 
form  that  especially  delights  him,  so  that  in  Uffizi 
we   find   a   picture    called  The   Virgin    holding    her 


SIGNORELLI  137 

Divine  Son  in  her  Lap,  in  which  the  shepherds  in 
the  background  are  naked  and  unashamed,  as  in 
an  older  age.  It  is,  however,  in  the  Cathedral  at 
Orvieto  that  we  find  his  best  work.  Says  Vasari,  "  I 
am  not  surprised  that  the  works  of  Luca  were  always 
highly  extolled  by  Michaelangelo,  or  that  for  his 
(Michael's)  divine  work  of  the  Last  Judgment  in  the 
Sistine  Chapel  he  should  have  courteously  availed  him- 
self to  a  certain  extent  of  the  inventions  of  Signorelli, 
as,  for  example,  in  the  angels  and  demons,  in  the 
divisions  of  the  heavens,  and  some  other  parts, 
wherein  Michaelangelo  imitated  the  mode  of  treat- 
ment adopted  by  Luca,  as  may  be  seen  by  every 
one."  In  looking  at  his  work  in  the  Cathedral,  it 
is  perhaps  a  question  whether  Michael  borrowed  to 
advantage.  Nothing  more  extraordinarily  thoughtful 
and  subtle  than  the  Antichrist  is  to  be  found  in 
Michael's  Last  Judgment.  So  like  to  Christ  as 
indeed  to  be  always  mistaken  for  him  from  a  distance, 
Antichrist  has  all  the  beauty,  all  the  cynical  hatred 
of  mankind,  which  listens  to  him  in  adoration  that, 
after  Luca  has  suggested  it  to  us,  we  might  expect. 
It  is  hardly  necessary,  one  might  say,  for  the  devil 
to  whisper  to  him ;  in  his  heart  all  the  cruelty  and 
villany  of  the  universe  have  been  sown  and  come  to 
flower. 

Opposite,  the  fresco  of  the  Resurrection,  with  its 
huge  naked  angels  sounding  their  death-destroying 
trumpets,  decked  with  a  banner  of  the  cross,  crushes 
us  beneath   its  tremendous   imaginative   power.      In 


138  ORVIETO 

his  magnificent  mind  the  Resurrection  took  form,  so 
that  he,  as  it  were,  was  able  to  comprehend  it  and 
its  humanity,  and  show  it  to  us  ere  it  had  been  re- 
solved out  of  the  confusion  of  the  trumpets  into  the 
order  of  the  syllables  of  God.  Visions  as  splendid  as 
those  of  Dante  dawn  upon  him.  The  Punishment  of 
the  Wicked,  the  Reward  of  the  Blessed,  and  Paradise. 
Perhaps  Luca  Signorelli  alone  of  all  great  painters, 
not  excepting  the  author  of  the  Triumph  of  Death 
in  the  Campo  Santo  at  Pisa,  has,  as  it  were,  com- 
prehended heaven  and  hell.  With  his  tremendous 
thoughts  as  our  companions  we  walk  the  streets  of 
Orvieto,  ever  finding  it  necessary  to  return  again  to 
the  Cappella  della  Madonna  di  S.  Brizio  in  the 
Cathedral.  And  when  at  last  we  leave  the  beautiful 
city  for  Rome,  or  for  Florence,  or  for  the  country,  it 
is  perhaps  with  a  new  vision  of  life  that  we  set  out ; 
a  little  tired  of  less  absolute  things,  till  immersed  in 
the  history  of  the  Eternal  City,  or  in  the  thoughts  of 
the  Humanists  at  Florence,  we  come  to  see  again 
that  man  too  is,  as  it  were,  God  in  the  making, 
seeing  that  he  was  made  in  the  image  of  God. 


UJ 

O 
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be 

UJ 

H 
UJ 

a. 


-v. 

<5, 


v. 


ROME. 

IT  is  necessary  to  remember  in  writing  of  Rome 
as  she  is  to-day  that  although  she  has  so  lately 
been  born  again,  as  it  were,  yet  in  reality  she  is  old, 
the  very  Mother  indeed  of  all  those  who  come,  never 
altogether  as  strangers,  to  her.  And  so  when  one 
sees  her  modern  buildings  and  streets  and  statues, 
whether  they  are  noble,  or,  as  is  more  often  the  case, 
ignoble,  it  is  always  with  a  consciousness  that  some- 
thing has  been  destroyed  to  make  room  for  these 
newer  things,  something  that  was  nearly  always  very 
noble  and  beautiful  indeed,  and  scarcely  ever  ignoble 
or  ugly  at  all.  And  strangely  enough  one's  first 
impression  almost,  on  coming  to  so  beautiful  a  city, 
is  one  of  vandalism  ;  as  though  a  people  hitherto 
devoted  to  order  and  sanity  had  suddenly  gone  mad, 
and  had  begun  to  destroy  its  most  priceless  posses- 
sions, quarrelling  in  a  ridiculous  and  almost  impos- 
sible fashion  with  its  own  past,  the  work  of  its  fathers, 
the  dwelling-places  of  its  Gods. 

Scarcely  anything  in  modern  Italy  will  so  surprise 


140  ROME 

and  disgust  the  traveller  as  the  preparations  that 
are  being  made  on  the  Capitoline  Hill  in  Rome 
for  a  statue  to  that  harmless  and  theatrically  fierce 
monarch,  Vittorio  Emmanuele  II.,  in  which  not  only 
has  some  eight  millions  of  lire  (£320,000)  been  already 
spent,  but  the  Palazzo  Torlonia,  built  in  1650  by 
Fontana,  has  been  utterly  destroyed. 

On  account  of  the  same  ridiculous  piece  of  vanity 
and  conceit  on  the  part  of  a  family  who  thirty  years 
ago  were  among  the  petty  monarchs  of  Europe,  the 
Palazzo  Venezia,  one  of  the  most  glorious  palaces  in 
the  world,  must  lose  the  wing  facing  the  Corso,  and  the 
Franciscan  monastery  of  Santa  Maria  in  Aracoeli  has 
been  pulled  down.  So  Vittorio  Emmanuele  II.  aloft 
on  a  ruined  monastery  will  be  able  to  gaze  with  all 
the  effrontery  of  the  Switzer  down  the  Corso,  a  street 
almost  as  old  as  history,  which  his  son  has  had  the 
temerity  to  rechristen  after  himself.  One  scarcely 
desires  to  speak  in  harsher  language  of  those  who, 
having  done  some  good  things  in  their  lives,  are  now 
no  longer  able  to  do  harm.  Yet  this  act  of  hideous 
vandalism  does  not  by  any  means  stand  alone  in 
Rome,  much  less  does  it  do  so  in  all  Italy.  In  the 
history  of  Rome  much  blame  is  laid  to  the  account  of 
the  Barbarian  which  is  not  his  due  :  it  has  been 
hitherto  generally  at  the  hands  of  her  own  sons  that 
she  has  suffered  most.  But  here  for  once  it  is  the  bar- 
barian and  no  Italian  who  has  heaped  destruction 
upon  destruction,  and  built  too,  after  his  fashion. 
When  those  who  shall  come  after,  ask  perhaps  of 


A    DESPOILED    CITY  141 

our  sons,  or  even  of  our  very  selves,  the  questions, 
"Who  turned  our  Tiber  into  a  ditch  and  bridged 
with  hideous  iron  the  river  of  Horatius  and  the 
Caesars  ?  Where  is  the  golden  tower  of  Nero,  and 
where  is  the  Ghetto  of  Rome  ?  What  have  you  done 
with  our  monasteries  and  convents,  S.  Maria  in  Val- 
licella,  SS.  Apostoli,  S.  Silvestro  in  Capite,  S.  Sil- 
vestro  di  Monte  Cavallo,  S.  Maria  della  Vergine,  S. 
Andrea  della  Valle,  S.  Maria  Minerva,  S.  Agostino  ? 
Where  are  the  gardens  and  villas  of  Negroni,  Ludo- 
visi,  Corsini  ?  Where  are  the  cypresses  of  history, 
and  the  ruins  that  cannot  have  come  to  us  bare  and 
ashamed  as  these  we  see?" — When  they  shall  ask 
these  questions,  take  them  in  silence  along  the  Corso 
"  Umberto  Primo  "  so  far  as  the  Piazza  Venezia,  and 
with  all  the  reverence  due  to  the  occasion  and  to  so 
humble,  honest,  and  faithful  a  king,  point  to  the 
statue  that  shall  offend  the  sky  and  say,  "  Ask  him — 
he  knows  " 

So  it  is  not  without  shame  for  a  city  once  so  noble, 
a  race  so  persistent  and  glorious,  that  one  comes  to 
Rome  to-day.  For  now  beauty  is  in  tears  and  for- 
gotten, and  the  intellect  of  Rome  is  even  as  the 
intellect  of  America,  and  possibly  of  England  too, 
gone  in  search  of  money,  only  not  so  successfully 
nor  so  naturally  and  honestly.  And  I,  too,  who  am 
younger  than  the  third  Rome,  have  yet  lived  long 
enough  to  be  sad  for  a  city  I  had  meant  to  worship, 
and  cannot  but  love  in  spite  of  her  gaze  that  has 
grown  vulgar  and   craven,   and   her  brows  that  are 


142  ROME 

lined  with  the  counting  of  coins.  It  was  not  her 
habit  of  old.  Have  not  her  eyes  blazed  with  anger 
and  her  brows  been  set  to  meet  the  world  ?  But  now 
the  crowd  has  seized  upon  her,  nor  has  it  grown 
afraid  as  yet.  But  I  believe,  and  am  sure,  that  some 
day  in  the  Forum  or  upon  the  Hill  of  the  Caesars 
it  will  suddenly  come  upon  some  mighty  trove,  the 
very  head  of  Jupiter  or  the  bones  of  Augustus  Caesar, 
and  then  and  in  a  moment  the  crowd  shall  be  afraid, 
and  through  the  darkness  of  the  centuries  it  will  see 
a  great  light,  and  from  the  dust  of  Rome  that  hero 
shall  arise  for  whom  she  has  ever  been  the  insatiable 
mistress  ;  and  he  shall  set  up  her  altars  again,  and 
he  shall  lift  up  her  head  and  kiss  her  on  the  lips,  and 
Beauty  shall  no  longer  be  an  outcast,  and  once  more 
she  shall  awake,  still  and  for  ever  the  one  immortal 
city.     This  is  my  faith. 

Ah!  there  are  many  points  difficult  to  decide  in 
that  train  of  thought  that  leads  each  man  who  has 
once  loved  her  to  create  for  his  own  soul  the  fourth 
Rome !  For  the  Roman  is  an  old  and  proud  man ; 
in  his  veins  throbs  the  blood  of  the  world's  remotest 
ancestors.  He  has  suffered  much  from  treason. 
And  having  taught  us  government  and  given  us  of 
his  strength,  he  is  to-day  more  easily  bewildered  by 
the  malady  that  has  seized  on  us  too.  His  magnifi- 
cent families  he  has  buried  with  tears;  he  sees  the 
chimneys  belch  forth  foul  smoke  over  Rome  and 
hears  the  groaning  of  the  living  cypresses  as  they  fall 
beneath  the  barbarian  axe  of  those  we  hounded  on. 


THE   FOURTH    ROME  143 

Hucksters  and  swindlers,  gamblers  and  thieves,  dwell 
in  the  palaces  of  his  ancestors,  and  drive  on  his  Hill 
of  Gardens  and  in  the  private  pleasure-grounds  of  his 
greatest  nobles.  Is  this  not  enough  for  Latin  blood 
to  bear  ?  No,  it  is  not  enough  ;  for  under  the  govern- 
ment of  the  crowd  he  is  distracted  between  his  allegi- 
ance to  his  country  and  his  allegiance  to  his  God. 
It  would  take  from  him  not  only  the  beauty  of  his 
land,  the  children  of  his  loins,  the  bread  he  has  grown, 
the  very  light  of  his  sun,  but  his  dream  of  heaven 
also,  so  that  at  last,  having  made  him  worse  than  a 
beggar,  it  must  put  out  his  very  eyes  too,  that  he  may 
not  see  his  deep  and  profound  sky  full  of  the  imme- 
morial stars,  nor  think  of  Mary  when  he  sees  the 
crescent  moon,  nor  find  the  sign  of  Jesus  in  the 
east,  nor  the  power  and  loving-kindness  of  his  God  in 
the  rainbow.  So  is  he  most  wretched,  yet  must  we 
believe  in  him ;  for  he  will  not  always  be  silent  in  his 
misery,  nor  listen  to  the  insolent  and  vulgar  laughter 
of  those  who  have  beggared  him  without  protest. 

So  let  us  think  of  Rome  to-day  as  on  the  point  of 
waking,  having  washed  herself  in  sleep  and  gathered 
the  beauty  of  her  dreams.  And  though  her  streets 
are  not  so  noble  as  of  old,  nor  her  government  so 
splendid,  nor  her  people  so  happy  nor  so  beautiful 
nor  so  strong,  even  yet  she  has  many  splendours  still 
about  her,  not  religious  only  but  of  the  world  too,  in 
garden  and  palace,  and  ruin,  in  which  we  may  joy, 
seeing  that  they  are  still  left  us  after  the  deluge  of 
the  crowd  that  has  swept  away  so  much.     Even  to- 


144  ROME 

day  to  see  the  sun  set  from  the  Pincio,  or  at  that 
hour  to  watch  the  Trinita  de'  Monti  flame  with  gold 
and  purple,  are  two  of  the  most  wonderful  sights  of 
the  world.  If  St  Peter's  dome  appeals  only  to  those 
who  love  that  of  which  it  is  a  sign,  the  Pantheon 
embraces  all  the  world.  And  from  the  Janiculum 
saint  and  sinner,  bond  and  free,  alike  may  look  at 
last,  perhaps  after  years  of  waiting  and  desire,  upon 
the  eternal  hills  above  Albano,  and  the  mountains  of 
the  Sabine  that  are  covered  with  snow,  and  may  re- 
member that  Caesar  and  Virgil,  Horace  and  home- 
sick Ovid,  saw  them  too  even  as  we  do.  Let  us  think 
only  of  old  things  for  a  time,  since  we  can  almost  see 
the  sea  that  was  furrowed  by  the  kingly  ships  of 
Carthage  and  of  Tyre.  So  we  shall  be  comforted 
even  in  the  modern  capital  of  Italy,  because  those 
gods  who  dwell  in  the  sea  and  upon  the  mountains 
and  in  the  valleys  of  their  earth  can  never  die,  neither 
will  they  permit  their  world  ever  really  to  forget 
them. 


VI. 


CHRISTMAS    EVE    IN    ROME. 

CAN  a  heretic  ever  be  really  at  home  in  Rome, 
ever  shake  off  the  oppression  almost  of  feeling 
everywhere  that  he  is  really  an  outsider  ?  This  curi- 
ous and  yet  not  wonderful  mood  that  the  city  thrusts 
upon  those  who  are  strangers  to  her  later  passions 
is  especially  noticeable  at  Christmastide.  One  is  then 
sure  to  meet  a  great  many  unmistakable  Englishmen, 
English  parsons,  English  people  of  all  sorts  in  the 
Forum  or  on  the  Palatine  Hill,  or  shyly  gazing  at  the 
Colosseum.  Of  course  this  may  simply  be  a  result 
of  the  foresight  of  Messrs  Thomas  Cook  &  Son ;  but 
I  am  inclined  to  think  it  is  not  wholly  due  to  that, 
but  to  a  desire  on  the  part  of  the  heretic  to  escape 
from  the  inquisition  of  the  great  city  during  a  time 
of  religious  emotion,  to  hold  to  more  friendly  things, 
the  spacious  days  of  the  Emperors,  the  earnestness 
of  the  Republic,  and  to  forget  everything  Papal  and 
mediaeval  with  which  England  at  least  has  nothing 
in  common  at  all — of  which  indeed  she  hardly  under- 
stands the  language. 

Yet  in  Rome  Christmas  is  not  a  season  of  emotion. 

K 


146  ROME 

There  is  not  nearly  so  much  jovial  goodwill  towards 
men  as  one  may  see  at  that  season  in  London.  It  is 
very  curious  to  see  the  Roman  nowadays,  chiefly  in- 
different or  hostile  to  the  Church  as  he  is,  and  re- 
member the  years  that  the  locust  hath  eaten ;  and 
remembering  too  the  suppression  of  the  convents  and 
monasteries,  it  is  amusing  on  the  Eve  of  the  Feast 
of  the  Immaculate  Conception  to  walk  through  the 
city  and  see  the  lines  of  tiny  lamps  hung  out  of 
numberless  houses  that  one  would  never  suspect  were 
monasteries  and  convents,  but  for  that  little  expres- 
sion of  emotion.  It  is  curious  that  one  sees  nothing 
of  the  sort  on  the  vigil  of  Christmas.  It  is  perhaps 
certain  that  Rome  finds  the  Blessed  Virgin  more 
sympathetic,  more  likely  to  be  delighted  with  lines 
of  dancing  fairy  lamps,  than  II  Gesu  Cristo. 

It  was  already  towards  evening,  and  the  sun  was 
sinking  somewhere  over  the  Campagna,  when  I  went 
out  into  the  streets  to  keep  the  vigil  of  Christmas. 
As  I  turned  out  of  the  Corso  into  the  Via  Condotti, 
the  Spanish  steps,  magnificent  and  splendid,  bathed 
in  the  gold  and  glory  of  the  setting  sun,  seemed  to 
show  to  me,  by  a  happy  fortune,  almost  a  piece  of  the 
very  garments  of  old  Rome  wrapt  in  her  eternity  and 
the  magnificence  of  her  penances.  In  a  mood  too 
difficult  to  explain,  I  went  under  the  heavy  leathern 
curtain,  held  aside  for  me  by  a  beggar,  into  a  little 
church,  curiously  dark  for  a  Roman  church  and  with 
but  few  candles  on  the  altar.  The  Litany  of  Loretto 
was  being  sung  to  a  curious  dance  tune,  to  which  the 


CHRISTMAS    EVE  147 

Virgin  seemed  to  trip  and  bow  in  acknowledgment 
of  her  beautiful  names.  It  was  a  very  poor  little 
church,  that  had  probably  never  given  refuge  to  the 
devout  rich  or  the  ultramontane  stranger.  Yet  I 
was  very  fond  of  it,  for  there,  albeit  very  badly  sung, 
one  could  still  sometimes  hear  the  old  plain-song, 
and  I  who  had  tramped  Rome  in  search  of  music 
and  always  been  given  Mozart  or  Mendelssohn  or 
Gounod,  who  had  spent  weary  and  agonised  hours 
in  the  Gesu  unable  to  move,  with  3000  people 
pressing  upon  me  and  three  organs  declaiming  the 
Credo,  was  glad  to  listen  to  the  old  Gregorian  tones 
even  though  they  were  murdered  by  the  poor  lad 
who  sang  them. 

As  I  knelt  there  watching  the  beauty  of  the  burn- 
ing candles,  or  listening  to  the  incomparable  names 
of  the  Virgin,  it  seemed  to  me  that  perhaps  I  was 
keeping  the  vigil  of  Christmas  for  the  first  time,  and 
that  although  I  was  a  heretic  I  too  perhaps  might 
rejoice  even  with  the  true  shepherds  and  the  wise 
kings  for  that  Jesus  was  born  into  a  world  that 
was  expecting  Him — but  without  excitement.  Near 
the  high  altar,  but  a  little  to  the  right,  was  the 
prcescpio,  not  yet  visible,  waiting,  as  it  were,  for  the 
knock  on  the  door  that  indeed  we  were  all  but  ex- 
pecting too — the  grave,  even  voice  of  St  Joseph  ; 
the  song  of  the  angels,  "  Gloria  in  excelsis  Deo "  ; 
the  swift  and  eager  simplicity  of  the  shepherd-boys ; 
the  magnificence  of  the  three  kings — the  Desire  of 
all    Nations.      The    church   was    crowded    with    the 


148  ROME 

poor  and  that  indescribable  class  of  persons  who 
are  neither  very  poor  nor  a  little  rich  :  they  crowded 
round  the  confessionals ;  and  many  remained  a  long 
time  praying  before  a  curiously  modern  picture  of 
the  Virgin,  in  front  of  which  two  exquisite  tapers 
were  burning,  lending  the  picture  a  beauty  that 
otherwise  it  could  never  have  possessed.  Nor  were 
we  without  the  gift  of  tears.  For  a  child  of  scarcely 
three  years  old  wept  almost  incessantly,  but  softly, 
oh,  softly,  to  the  crooning  of  the  mother,  whose 
other  child,  a  boy  of  about  six,  was  playing  with  a 
dog  in  a  corner.  Presently  a  soldier — a  sergeant  of 
infantry,  I  think — came  in  with  his  wife  and  little 
boy,  who  held  by  a  string  a  little  air -ball,  the 
colour  of  the  sky,  that  presently  escaped  him  and 
flew  up  with  the  incense -smoke  to  the  old,  sweet 
angels  on  the  ceiling.  He  gazed  after  it  for  a  long 
time,  and  then  with  that  indescribable  little  curtsey 
that  even  the  youngest,  tiniest  child,  howsoever 
ragged,  evil,  or  unclean,  will  never  pass  the  high 
altar  without  dropping,  he  followed  his  mother,  who 
had  a  message  for  the  Virgin,  oh,  of  gladness  for 
her,  for  her  who  had  known  too  the  joy  of  a  tiny 
first-born  son. 

The  beautiful  names  had  become  more  tender,  more 
appealing,  more  curious,  and  at  last  magnificent : — 

Regina  Angelorum, 
Regina  Martyrum, 
Regina  Virginum, 
Regina  Sanctorum  omnium, 


CHRISTMAS    EVE  149 

Regina  sine  labe  originali  concepta, 
Regina  Sacratissimi  Rosarii. 

The  voices  of  the  impossible ;  the  harsh,  violent 
voices  of  the  poor  and  the  vicious ;  the  starved, 
thin  voices  of  the  poor  and  the  persecuted ;  the 
profound,  unlovely  voices  of  the  poor  and  the  in- 
different,— answered  to  each  magnificent  and  splen- 
did title  in  the  equally  marvellous  words — 

"  Ora  pro  nobis  " ; 

and  I  kept  repeating  to  myself  so  that  I  might 
not  lose  touch  of  reality :  "  This  is  Christmas  Eve : 
in  the  rich  and  splendid  churches  of  Rome  a  thou- 
sand candles  are  burning  on  every  altar — even  in 
the  churches  of  the  very  poor  they  do  what  they 
can;  I  can  count  six  —  no,  eight  with  the  two 
smaller  lights  —  even  here  to-night,  and  I  like  it 
better  so.  This  is  Christmas  Eve :  in  the  rich  and 
splendid  shops  of  London  a  thousand  gas-jets  flare 
— even  in  the  shops  of  the  very  poor  they  do  what 
they  can ;  how  many  kerosene-lamps  might  I  count 
to-night  in  the  Hampstead  Road  ?  This  is  Christmas 
Eve  ;  they  too  keep  the  feast.  All  Europe  is  bending 
to-night  over  the  manger  to  which  '  Jesu  parvule ' 
came  from   His  heaven — but  without  excitement." 

"  In  dulci  jubilo,  now  let  us  sing  with  mirth  and  jo  ! 
Our  heartis  consolation  lyes  in  pra^sepio, 
And  shines  as  the  sun,  matris  in  graemio. 
Alpha  es  et  Omega,  Alpha  es  et  Omega. 
O  Jesu  parvule,  I  thirst  sore  after  Thee  ; 
Comfort  my  heart  and  minde,  O  Puer  Optime, 


150  ROME 

and  in  our  fashion  too  we  sing  in   Rome  as  in  old 
days — but  without  excitement. 

When  I  came  out  after  the  benediction  of  the 
Blessed  Sacrament,  there  was  still  running  in  my 
head  that  curious  half-Eastern  tune  that  is  so  often 
played  here  in  Italy  during  the  moment  of  the  pro- 
found silence.  It  is  like  a  rushing  of  wind,  or  the 
far-off  sound  of  drums,  or  the  sound  of  flutes  not  so 
far  away.  Past  the  innumerable  shrines  of  the  Virgin 
that  thread  the  labyrinth  of  the  city,  marking  for  ever 
the  indestructible  footsteps  of  the  Middle  Age,  I  went 
to  look  down  on  the  kingdom  the  "  Jesu  parvule' 
had  won  and  to  hear  the  bells  of  Santa  Maria  Rotonda 
cry  to  Him  on  His  birthday,  "  Vicisti  Galilsee."  Ah, 
how  great  was  that  victory !  In  all  the  majesty  of 
ruin,  still  splendid  in  spite  of  the  wounds  of  the 
Christian  centuries,  the  Pantheon  alone  in  all  Rome 
remembered  the  very  song  of  the  angels.  From  beneath 
that  marvellous  dome  what  gods  had  heard  the  multi- 
tude of  the  heavenly  host,  and  looked  forward  perhaps 
even  to  to-day,  not  altogether  in  shame  or  fear,  since 
of  all  the  temples  of  their  world  this  alone  still  stands  ? 
To-night  the  rain  had  wetted  the  floor  beneath  that 
field  of  stars,  and  as  one  gazed  upwards  to  the  sky 
that  was  the  roof,  the  moon  fled  backwards  as  it  were 
with  great  speed,  or  soared  up  swiftly  as  if  to  leave 
this  earth  for  ever,  then  during  interminable  moments 
fell  through  the  void.  And  over  the  sad,  sweet  music 
of  the  Church  came  the  sound  of  the  winds  of  heaven, 
and  the  drops  of  rain  that  fell  from  such  unimaginable 


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CHRISTMAS    EVE  151 

heights,  and  perhaps  to  some  of  us,  too,  even  the 
song  of  the  angels. 

And  so  when  I  gazed  from  the  steps  of  the  Capitol 
at  the  living  cypresses  on  the  Palatine  Hill  that 
burned  their  flameless  tapers  over  the  bodies  of  the 
Caesars,  I  was  seized  with  the  transfiguring  emotion  of 
victory,  and  I  too  threw  to  the  winds  the  words  of 
submission,  "  Vicisti  Galilsee."  Yet  it  is  not  altogether 
without  a  remembrance  of  our  various  and  vulgar  day 
that  one,  protected  though  he  be  with  triple  steel, 
even  in  Rome  may  keep  the  vigil  of  Christ's  birthday. 

As  I  came  back  with  a  sickening  fall,  from  the 
grandiloquent  heights  and  depths  of  the  destiny  of 
man  to  Christmas  Eve  of  to-day,  I  found  it  was  near 
midnight,  and  that  the  first  Mass  of  Christmas  morn- 
ing would  be  almost  beginning.  So  I  went  towards 
San  Silvestro  in  Capite.  As  I  gave  up  my  ticket  with 
which  it  was  necessary  to  be  provided  as  in  the  days 
of  persecution,  I  found  myself  in  a  splendid  church, 
from  which  everything  that  would  suggest  silence  and 
prayer  had  been  excluded.  A  great  number  of  people 
was  assembled,  almost  entirely  made  up  of  English 
and  Americans.  One  was  everywhere  forbidden  to 
spit,  which  from  the  frequency  of  the  injunction  one 
may  suppose  was  necessary.  The  ceiling  was  alive 
with  a  host  of  imperious  and  splendid  figures.  The 
image  of  the  Virgin  was  dressed  in  rich  and  magnifi- 
cent robes,  the  altar  blazed  with  hundreds  of  candles,, 
the  poor  and  the  Romans  sat  in  humility  behind  the 
indomitable  Anglo-Saxon. 


152  ROME 

Here  for  the  first  time  I,  but  another  pilgrim  from 
that  little  island  of  Britain,  found  a  great  expectancy, 
a  scarcely  veiled  excitement :  it  was  Christmas  Eve, 
surely  we  looked  even  for  Jesus. 

Among  the  innumerable  candles  in  the  midst  of 
the  altar  there  hung  a  little  black  curtain,  about 
two  feet  high  and  as  broad  too,  at  which  all  our 
world  seemed  to  be  gazing.  The  electric  lights  were 
switched  on,  the  organ  began  to  play,  and  suddenly, 
as  though  by  magic,  that  little  curtain  leapt  up,  and 
behold  a  tiny,  rosy  bambino  with  arms  outstretched 
towards  us.  A  great  sigh  as  of  relief  passed  over  the 
congregation,  and  —  and  Mass  began.  Ah,  but  I 
longed  for  a  darker  place  and  a  little  silence  and 
spaces  and  not  quite  so  grand  a  stable  for  the  "  Jesu 
parvule";  so  I  went  out.  Not  that  I  saw  anything  so 
ludicrous  as  "idolatry"  or  irreverence  in  what,  after 
all,  perhaps  seemed  sweet  or  even  beautiful  to  those 
people.  Nor  did  I  mind  the  realism  ;  it  was  not  that, 
but  some  suggestion  of  childish  make-believe,  some- 
thing that  seemed  like  playing  at  things  that  one 
dared  only  contemplate  as  a  great  mystery,  educated, 
civilised,  entirely  disillusioned  as  these  English  and 
Americans  were — even  as  I  was.  There  was  a  touch 
— nay,  more  than  a  touch — of  vulgarity  in  that,  as  in 
the  dressing  of  the  image  of  Mary  or  the  use  of 
artificial  flowers  where  real  ones  would  have  been 
entirely  in  place.  Something  not  quite  sincere  or 
simple,  that  is  really  in  place  with  the  Italian,  but 
that  in  a  church  for  English  people  is  wrong,  pro- 


CHRISTMAS   EVE  153 

foundly  distressing,  and  to  me  at  least  unbearable. 
Ah,  at  times  Jesus  is  nearly  as  unapproachable  as 
the  hearts  of  men. 

But  for  many  years  —  for  hundreds  of  years  as 
it  seems  to  me — I  have  not  really  kept  Christmas; 
nor  watched  by  night  for  any  star,  nor  really  re- 
joiced more  at  dawn  of  that  day  than  at  the  dawn 
of  any  other.  Yet  I  remember,  yes,  in  spite  of  the 
kind  of  night  that  is,  how  imperceptibly,  already 
closing  around  my  childhood,  I  remember  the  simple 
words  of  my  prayer  on  Christmas  Eve,  and  how  in 
the  earliest,  earliest  hours  of  the  morning,  long, 
oh,  long  before  dawn,  I  would  creep  from  my  bed, 
and  with  the  long  blind  over  my  head  gaze,  with 
an  unutterable  excitement  in  my  heart,  over  London 
for  that  star  that  came  and  stood  over  the  place 
where  the  young  child  was ;  and  when,  shivering  with 
cold  and  excitement,  I  got  back  into  bed,  doubting- 
nothing  that  I  had  found  it  among  so  many,  I  too 
watched  with  the  shepherds  over  their  flocks,  and 
verily  and  indeed  heard  the  heavenly  music.  The 
romance  of  all  that !  The  cold  and  the  glittering 
glory  of  the  stars,  the  danger  of  wolves,  the  hysterical 
amazement,  the  excitement,  the  beauty,  when  the 
great  archangel  whose  song  was  taken  up  by  that 
multitude  of  the  heavenly  host  shone  from  heaven ; 
ah !  why  is  all  that  gone  for  ever  ?  That  was 
Christmas.  Not  all  the  majestic  music  or  sweetness 
of  that  midnight  mass,  and  the  earliest  matins  at 
Santa  Maria  Maggiore,  can  bring  back  Jesus  to  my 


154  ROME 

earth  as  He  used  to  come  to  me,  a  little  sleepless  boy, 
in  the  flickering  light  of  the  night-light  hundreds  of 
years  ago. 

Is  it  so  with  us  all  ?  Does  Christmas  Eve,  from 
being  the  one  unmatchable  night  of  the  year,  become 
gradually  as  we  grow  older  the  same  dark,  senseless 
period  of  sleep  that  had  once,  for  the  very  songs  of 
the  angels,  been  impossible  ? 

It  is  perhaps  that  I  am  the  most  unfortunate  of 
mortals.  Still  in  the  darkness  and  the  snow  the 
world  waits  breathless,  under  a  mantle  most  pure, 
for  the  "  Desire  of  all  Nations,"  and  I  alone  so  soiled 
in  a  world  I  love  have  lost  my  vision,  and  may  only 
look  back  with  envy  and  despair  on  days  so  different, 
when  as  yet  there  was  nothing  in  me  very  bad. 

No,  I  cannot  think  it.  I  am  not  the  only  one  who 
now  finds  it  hard  even  in  Rome  to  keep  awake  all 
through  the  night  of  Christmas.  I  am  not  the  only 
one  who  has  perhaps  doubted  or  forgotten.  I  am  not 
the  only  one  either  who  regrets. 

So  perhaps  through  death,  but  not  otherwise,  I 
shall  win  back  to  those  days  hundreds  of  years  ago. 
But  I  am  so  sure,  though  I  hear  them  sing  matins  to 
the  old  tones  at  Santa  Maria  Maggiore,  or  watch  from 
a  great  distance  ten  or  fifteen  simultaneous  Masses  at 
St  Peter's,  that  will  be  like  a  city  with  streets,  full  of 
the  mist  of  incense  and  the  flickering  of  candles  and 
the  concourse  of  men,  I  shall  not  win  back  to  those 
days,  nor  be  one  single  step  nearer  to  that  star,  nor 
find  the  shepherds  in  those  fields,  nor  in  the  darkness 


CHRISTMAS    EVE  155 

and  the  cold  be  sore  afraid ;  but  it  may  be  that  if  I 
go  to  a  little  church  in  the  Via  Babuino,  where  they 
say  old  words  and  old,  old  prayers  in  English  that 
I  learned  hundreds  of  years  ago,  and  where  be  sure 
they  will  sing  "  O  come,  all  ye  faithful,"  to  that  sweet 
old  Portuguese  tune — it  may  be  I  shall  have  courage 
to  come  even  to  the  very  cradle  of  that  "  Jesu 
parvule "  I  used  to  expect  so  eagerly. 


VII. 


THE    RELIGIOUS   ORDERS    IN    ROME. 


"Bernardus  valles  colles  Benedictus  amabat, 
Oppida  Franciscus,  magnas  Ignatius  urbes." 


IT  would  require  at  the  least  an  entire  book  to 
discuss  the  origin  of  monasticism  properly; 
for  our  present  purpose  a  very  slight  and  imperfect 
sketch  of  the  history  of  monachism  must  suffice. 
Though  asceticism  probably  existed  from  the  first 
in  the  Christian  Church,  it  is  not  until  the  fourth 
century  that  monasticism  can  be  said  to  have  de- 
veloped from  the  Anchorites,  the  first  of  whom  was 
Paul,  228-341,  through  the  Stylitai,  of  whom  the 
most  famous  was  Simeon  of  Antioch,  387-459,  and 
the  Cenobites,  who  dwelt  together  in  community,  of 
whom  the  first  abbas  and  lawgiver  was  one  Pach- 
omius,  who  ruled  1400  brothers  in  eight  or  nine 
houses.  And  in  order  to  understand  monasticism 
in  its  greater  developments,  it  is  necessary  before 
all  things  to  remember  that  it  was  the  work  of 
laymen  and  not  of  the  clergy.     All  the  great  figures 


THE    RELIGIOUS   ORDERS  157 

of  these  early  centuries — Antony,  Pachomius,  and 
even  Benedict  —  were  laymen.  Indeed  at  this  time 
it  was  forbidden  to  a  monk  to  be  ordained.  And 
amidst  all  the  hurly-burly  of  Christendom  East  and 
West  in  those  early  centuries  we  find  much  that 
appears  to  us  ridiculous  and  extreme ;  gangs  of 
fanatics  sworn  to  every  sort  of  excessive  asceticism 
and  cruelty,  hating  or  despising  the  clergy,  yet  when 
the  opportunity  offered  ready  at  the  bidding  of  some 
ignorant  priest  to  murder  and  torture  all  those  whom 
they  were  unable  to  understand,  crash  through  the 
almost  illegible  pages  of  the  history  of  the  time. 
The  excesses  of  the  Inquisition  grow  pale  and  pas- 
sionless before  the  orgies  ol  blood,  the  immense  sen- 
sualities and  crimes  of  the  early  Church.  For  the 
Church  of  Christ  grew  up,  her  hands  already  crim- 
soned in  the  rivers  of  blood  that  she  had  shed,  her 
eyes  flaming  with  a  new  cruelty  that  desired  even 
the  blood  of  the  bloodless  and  immortal  statues, 
since  the  living  hearts  of  men  torn  from  their  mortal 
bodies  were  not  sufficient  to  satiate  her  desires. 

It  was  not  till  St  Benedict  came,  480-542,  that  we 
find  any  order  or  sanity  in  this  immense  chaos.  The 
history  of  his  order  is  for  centuries  the  history  of 
monachism.  He  was  the  son  of  wealthy  parents 
of  Nursia  in  Spoleto,  and  was  educated  in  Rome. 
Disgusted,  it  is  said,  by  the  licentiousness  of  the 
Roman  youth  of  his  day,  he  fled  to  the  mountains 
of  Subiaco  at  the  age  of  fifteen.  One  finds  just  there 
perhaps   the   true   explanation    of  all  the  nightmare 


158  ROME 

of  the  previous  Christian  centuries.  Flight — it  was 
the  very  first  principle,  the  very  spirit  of  asceticism, 
of  monasticism — flight  from  the  world,  from  the  race 
of  man,  so  that  one  might  separate  oneself  from 
those  whom  God  had  already  condemned.  Fear 
drove  them  as  the  wind  drives  the  sea.  And  it  was 
fear,  that  most  terrible  of  all  passions,  that  had 
driven  so  many  thousands  mad  with  cruelty  and 
the  desire  for  blood,  for  sacrifice,  for  the  death  and 
mutilation  of  those  who  were  not  afraid.  But  St 
Benedict,  after  many  adventures,  founded  twelve 
monasteries,  placing  in  each  twelve  monks  with  a 
superior.  His  order,  he  says,  "  is  a  school  in  which 
men  learn  to  serve  God."  Well,  it  was  founded  on 
obedience,  and  began  to  civilise  Europe  as  well  as 
to  convert  it.  His  motto — the  motto  of  his  order 
— was  Pax.  With  his  advent  monasticism  proper 
may  be  said  to  have  begun.  And  the  Benedictines 
have  always  been,  and  are  still,  not  only  the  greatest 
community  in  the  Catholic  Church,  but  its  most 
civilising  force,  its  most  cultured  class,  as  it  were 
its  aristocracy.  Of  the  five  orders  of  Western 
Christendom  the  Benedictine  order  stands  first.  Of 
the  three  Rules  that  of  St  Benedict  is  the  most  pro- 
found, the  most  comprehensive.  His  is  the  only 
monastic  order  proper.  The  Dominicans,  the  Fran- 
ciscans, the  Carmelites,  the  Augustinians,  are  friars 
and  not  monks  at  all. 

The    Benedictine   order   in    rather   less    than    five 
hundred  years  began  to  produce  branches  of  black 


THE    RELIGIOUS    ORDERS  159 

and  white  monks  and  nuns,  which  are  liable  to 
cause  confusion  to  the  stranger,  unless  he  clearly 
understands  that  these  numerous  orders  are  really 
only  Benedictines  under  other  names.  Thus  we  may 
divide  the  order  somewhat  as  follows : — 

1.  The  Benedictines  Proper,  founded  in  580,  who 
wear  a  black  habit ;  these  are  the  original  order 
founded  by  St  Benedict.  2.  The  Black  monks  and 
nuns ;  and,  3.  The  White  monks  and  nuns.  The 
Black  monks  and  nuns  are  as  follows :  The  Vallom- 
brosans  of  Italy,  founded  in  1038,  and  the  Silves- 
trines  of  Italy,  who  are  monks  only,  founded  in 
1230.  The  White  monks  and  nuns  consist  of  the 
following  orders  :  The  Cistercians  of  France,  founded 
in  1 100,  from  whom  again  in  1660  we  get  the  Trap- 
pists  of  France;  the  Camaldolese  of  Italy,  founded 
in  1012,  from  whom  we  get  in  1272  the  Olivetans 
of  Italy,  who  are  monks  only;  the  Carthusians  of 
France,  founded  in  1086.  All  these  are  Benedic- 
tines and  are  under  St  Benedict's  rule,  with  or 
without  additions  peculiar  to  each  sub-order.  Thus 
we  see  how  from  time  to  time  in  the  course  of  cen- 
turies reformers  arose  to  restore  the  ancient  rule 
in  all  its  strictness  when  may  be  it  had  from  one 
cause  or  another  fallen  into  disuse  or  abuse.  It 
will  give  the  reader  some  idea  of  the  vast  strength 
and  power  of  the  Benedictine  order  if  he  under- 
stands that  before  the  first  sub-order  was  founded 
the  Benedictines  held  in  England  alone  the  mon- 
asteries   of    Westminster,    St    Albans,    Winchester, 


i6o  ROME 

Whitby,  and  Glastonbury,  to  name  no  others.  To 
name  the  monasteries  and  churches  they  have  held 
in  Italy  would  fill  a  small  volume.  In  Rome  at  the 
present  day,  however,  they  occupy  only  six  houses — 
namely,  the  great  monastery  of  S.  Anselmo  on  the 
Aventine  Hill,  which  is  a  great  international  college 
for  the  education  of  monks  of  the  order,  at  present 
under  a  Belgian  abbas.  It  is  here  that  at  9  a.m. 
on  Sundays  one  may  hear  mass  sung  to  the  old 
plain-song,  a  magnificent  experience.  S.  Callisto  in 
Trastevere  and  S.  Ambrogio  de'  Maxima  in  the 
Piazza  Mattei  are  also  Benedictine  monasteries. 
There  are  also  three  nunneries  in  the  city — namely, 
S.  Maria  in  Campo  Marzio,  S.  Benedetto  in  Via 
Boncampagni  (which  used  to  have,  and  for  what  I 
know  has  now,  an  English  abbess),  and  St  Cecilia  in 
Trastevere.  From  time  to  time  the  Benedictines  have 
occupied  more  than  thirty-seven  different  monasteries 
and  churches  in  Rome,  among  them  being  S.  Maria 
in  Aracoeli,  S.  Gregorio  Magno  on  the  Ccelian  Hill, 
and  S.  Giorgio  in  Velabro,  these  two  last  being  the 
churches  of  the  apostle  and  the  patron  saint  of  the 
English,  and  S.  Silvestro  in  Capite,  which  is  now  the 
church  of  the  English-speaking  Catholics.  S.  Agnese 
Fuori  le  Mura,  S.  Maria  Sopra  Minerva,  and  S. 
Bibiana  were  also  at  various  times  in  their  hands. 
It  should  be  noted  also  that  the  first  reform  of  the 
Benedictines  was  that  made  by  William  of  Aquitaine 
at  Cluny  in  910,  and  it  was  indirectly  from  Cluny 
that  in   11 19    at   Citcaux   the   Cistercian  order   was 


THE   RELIGIOUS   ORDERS  161 

founded,  not  as  a  separate  body  from  the  Bene- 
dictine Order,  but  as  a  reform  of  it.  It  was  to 
Citeaux  that  St  Bernard,  "  the  last  of  the  Fathers," 
came  accompanied  by  his  five  brothers  and  other 
friends  to  beg  the  habit  of  the  Order.  At  the  pres- 
ent time  the  Cistercians  are  in  occupation  of  three 
churches  and  chapels  in  Rome — namely,  S.  Bernardo, 
in  Piazza  S.  Bernardo,  near  the  railway  station ; 
S.  Susanna,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  Via  Venti 
Settembre  from  S.  Bernardo ;  and  S.  Croce  in 
Gerusalemme.  The  dress  is  a  white  habit  and  black 
scapular. 

But  already  S.  Romuald  of  Ravenna  in  1012  had 
founded  a  house  at  Camaldoli,  close  to  Arezzo,  where 
a  little  village  of  hermitages  was  built.  Mr  Mont- 
gomery Carmichael  in  his  book  '  In  Tuscany '  has 
written  a  delightful  chapter  on  this  monastery,  now 
secularised,  but  well  worth  a  visit.  This  was  the 
third  reform  that  had  arisen  within  the  Benedictine 
Order.  The  Camaldolese  are  to  be  found  in  Rome 
at  S.  Ildefonso  in  Via  Sistina  and  at  S.  Antonio  on 
the  Aventine  Hill.  The  dress  is  a  white  habit  and 
white  scapular. 

The  fourth  reform  was  instituted  in  1038  by  S. 
Giovanni  Gualbertus  at  Vallombrosa,  a  place  familiar 
to  most  people  who  have  visited  Florence.  The 
monastery  is  now  secularised,  but  in  Rome  you  will 
find  the  Vallombrosans  at  S.  Prassede  on  the 
Esquiline  Hill.     The  habit  and  scapular  are  black. 

The  next  reform  was  the  foundation  of  the  great 

L 


162  ROME 

Order  of  Carthusians  by  S.  Bruno  in  1086.  It  was  he 
who  founded  the  Grande  Chartreuse  in  the  high  Alps. 
In  England  the  houses  of  the  Order  were  called 
Charterhouses,  as  in  France  Chartreuses,  and  in  Italy 
Certose.  The  great  school  and  alms  -  house,  the 
Charterhouse,  was  one  of  their  foundations  sup- 
pressed by  Henry  VIII.  They  are  famous  in  the 
Church  for  their  Rule,  which  has  never  been  re- 
formed, and  in  the  world  for  their  liqueur,  distilled 
in  the  Alps,  and  known  in  every  city  in  Europe. 
In  Rome  they  are  to  be  found  in  the  Via  Palestro, 
but  there  is  no  monastery ;  the  principal  centre  of 
the  Order  is  in  France.  The  dress  of  the  Order  is 
a  white  habit  and  white  scapular.  They  are  said 
to  wear  a  hair  shirt  next  the  skin. 

The  Sylvestrians,  an  unimportant  reform  founded 
by  Sylvester  Gozzolini  in  1230,  is  an  Italian  Order. 
It  admits  monks  only.  The  dress  is  a  blue  habit  and 
blue  scapular.  It  is  in  Austria  the  Order  is  mostly 
found.  In  Rome  they  have  a  house  in  the  Via  di  S. 
Stefano. 

The  Olivetan  Order,  another  small  reform  wholly 
Italian  in  origin  and  development,  was  founded  by 
Bernard  of  Siena  in  1319.  The  convent  on  Monte 
Oliveto,  not  far  from  Siena,  was  suppressed  in  1870, 
and  has  practically  been  turned  into  an  hotel  where 
one  may  live  very  fairly  for  5  lire  a-day.  Mr  and  Mrs 
Pennell  in  their  book,  '  An  Italian  Pilgrimage,'  have 
written  a  charming  account  of  their  sojourn  with  the 
few  remaining  monks  in  that  curiously  lonely  spot. 


THE    RELIGIOUS    ORDERS  163 

The  Abbate  di  Negro,  however,  died  in  1897,  mourned 
by  many  who  had  experienced  his  courtesy  and  kind- 
ness and  who  loved  him.  He  was  of  the  family  of 
St  Catherine,  the  Seraph  of  Genoa.  In  Rome  the 
Order  will  be  found  at  St  Francis  Church  in  the 
Forum.     The  dress  is  a  white  habit  and  scapular. 

We  now  come  to  the  Order  about  which  there  is 
so  much  vulgar  curiosity.  The  Trappists  are  really 
a  reform  of  the  Cistercian  Order.  They  were  founded 
as  late  as  1660  by  the  Abbe  de  Ranee.  His  abbey, 
La  Trappe,  founded  in  1140,  was  a  Cistercian  mon- 
astery. The  discipline  of  La  Trappe — how  often  one 
hears  the  phrase  together  with  an  adventurous  ex- 
planation wholly  inaccurate.  It  is  true  that  silence 
is  considered  as  a  spiritual  necessity  among  the 
Trappists,  but  it  is  wholly  untrue  that  when  they 
speak  they  dismally  murmur,  "  Brother,  we  must 
die."  After  a  rather  large  experience  of  the  Religious 
Orders  of  the  Catholic  Church,  I  find  that  I  am  chiefly 
impressed  by  the  extraordinary  cheerfulness,  more 
especially  of  the  monks,  whom  one  might  expect 
perhaps  to  find  unspeakably  sad.  But  it  is  not  so. 
Their  point  of  view  is  so  different  from  that  of  the 
ordinary  man  living  in  the  world  that  it  is  impossible 
to  judge  of  them  by  the  same  standard.  A  very 
excellent  account  of  a  Trappist  monastery  as  seen 
from  the  inside  may  be  found  in  J.  K.  Huysman's 
'  En  Route.'  In  Rome  the  Trappists  will  be  found  at 
Tre  Fontane,  which  they  have  redeemed  from  the 
malaria  partly  by  means  of  plantations  of  eucalyptus 


1 64  ROME 

trees.  The  dress  of  the  Order  is  white  with  a  black 
scapular. 

Having  given  this  utterly  inadequate  account  of 
the  monastic  Orders,  it  is  necessary  to  turn  for  a 
few  moments  to  the  friars — a  very  different  body 
of  men.  The  three  great  names  among  the  friars 
are  those  of  St  Francis,  St  Dominic,  and  St 
Teresa. 

The  friars,  of  whom  perhaps  the  best  known  type 
is  St  Francis  of  Assisi  and  the  Franciscans,  whom 
we  shall  consider  later,  are  different  from  monks  in 
many  things.  Their  first  aim  is  not  so  much  the 
service  of  God  as  of  man.  They  are  not  so  much 
contemplatives  as  preachers  ;  they  are  not  inclosed 
as  the  monk  really  is,  but  are  pilgrims  through  the 
world.  It  is  perhaps  necessary  to  remind  the  Eng- 
lish reader,  who  is  usually  never  so  much  at  sea  as 
when  trying  to  understand  the  Religious  Orders  of 
the  Catholic  Church,  that  the  Dominicans  are  not 
monks  but  friars.  It  is  from  St  Dominic  that  the 
Dominicans  get  their  Rule.  A  Spaniard,  born  in 
Old  Castille  in  1170,  twelve  years  before  St  Francis 
of  Assisi,  he  founded  his  Order  in  1215 — an  Order 
which  has  indeed  proved  to  be  the  watch -dog  of 
the  Church.  The  enterprise  he  set  on  foot  was 
chiefly  missionary.  He  was  a  son  of  the  noble 
house  of  Guzmani,  and  was  educated  at  Salamanca. 
In  1198  he  went,  together  with  the  Bishop  of  Osma, 
to  arrange  a  marriage  between  Prince  Ferdinand  of 
Castille  and  the  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  La  Marche. 


THE    RELIGIOUS   ORDERS  165 

Passing  through  Languedoc,  where  the  Albigensian 
heresy  was  rife,  he  is  said  to  have  converted  com- 
pletely the  owner  of  the  house  where  he  lodged  in 
the  course  of  a  single  night.  And  it  would  seem 
that  this  experience  coloured  his  whole  life,  setting 
an  ideal  before  him  of  which  he  never  lost  sight. 
The  Pope  somewhat  reluctantly  gave  him  leave  to 
return  to  Languedoc,  whence  in  reality  he  set  out 
to  conquer  the  world.  And  it  was  during  this  mis- 
sionary enterprise  in  Languedoc  that  St  Dominic 
composed  the  Rosary  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  Mary — 
a  series  of  prayers  designed  really  to  remind  the 
world  of  the  birth  of  our  Saviour.  And  it  was  in 
Languedoc,  too,  in  1215,  that  he  established  his 
order  of  Preaching  Friars.  Setting  out  for  Rome 
in  1216  to  get  his  Order  established  by  the  Pope, 
he  was  present  at  the  Fourth  Council  at  the  Lat- 
eran,  when  the  rule  of  confession  once  at  the  least 
in  each  year  before  receiving  the  Eucharist  at  Easter 
was  enjoined  on  the  faithful.  In  1218  he  returned 
to  Spain,  to  Segovia,  where  he  founded  a  convent; 
and  we  find  his  convents  and  monasteries  already, 
even  at  that  date,  in  England,  France,  Italy,  Ire- 
land, Germany,  Greece,  Norway,  Sweden,  and  the 
near  East.  He  died  at  Bologna,  August  6,  1221,  of 
a  summer  fever,  after  returning  from  a  mission  to 
Florence. 

Of  all  religious  orders  that  of  St  Dominic  has 
remained  the  most  at  one  with  itself.  There 
appear    to     have    been     no     reforms,    no     branches 


166  ROME 

springing  from  the  Dominicans.  They  have  ever 
worked  together,  under  a  discipline  as  sound  as 
that  of  the  Society  of  Jesus.  The  dress  of  the 
Order  is  white  as  to  habit  and  scapular,  covered  by 
a  black  cloak  and  hood — the  cappa  nigra.  In  Rome 
the  Dominicans  will  be  found  at  S.  Clemente  (Irish), 
S.  Sabina,  and  on  Monte  Mario.  There  is  also  a 
nursing  order  of  English  Dominican  sisters  in  Via 
Napoli.  Their  General  lives  at  S.  Maria  Sopra 
Minerva,  where  St  Catherine  of  Siena,  their  greatest 
saint,  lies  buried  under  the  high  altar.  St  Thomas 
Aquinas,  whom  Leo  XIII.  loves  so  dearly,  was  a 
great  Dominican ;  as  also  St  Rose  of  Lima,  the 
Mystic,  and  St  Peter  Martyr. 

The  life  of  St  Francis  of  Assisi  is  known  to  every- 
one almost,  certainly  to  everyone  who  has  any  pre- 
tensions to  education.  In  him  we  seem  to  see  Christ 
on  earth  again.  The  knight  of  Lady  Poverty,  he  has 
fascinated  a  world  with  the  beauty  of  holiness.  His 
few  poor  brothers  have  multiplied  till  in  every  city  of 
Italy  they  are  of  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men  the 
most  frequently  met  with.  And  even  as  the  ideal  of 
St  Benedict  appears  always  to  be  intellectual,  so  the 
ideal  of  St  Francis  is  emotional,  is,  in  its  founder  at 
least,  just  love.  To  read  "  The  Little  Flowers  of  St 
Francis  "  is  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  heaven.  His  rule, 
approved  by  Pope  Honorius  III.  in  1223,  appears  only 
to  have  been  accepted  by  those  in  authority  because 
of  a  supposed  miracle.  Pope  Innocent  III.,  who  in 
1210  had  provisionally  approved  the  rule,  did  so  in 


THE    RELIGIOUS    ORDERS  167 

spite  of  the  decision  of  the  Church  to  create  no  new 
order,  because  of  a  dream  in  which  he  saw  a  little 
poor  man  in  a  brown  frock  supporting  the  Lateran 
Church  which  was  falling.  St  Mary  of  the  Angels  at 
Assisi,  given  to  St  Francis  by  the  Benedictines,  has 
since  1870  been  taken  from  the  Franciscans  by  a 
government  that  is  already  perjured  beyond  any 
redemption.  That  is  not  the  least  of  its  crimes. 
The  Franciscan  Order,  however,  early  divided  into 
two  branches  because  of  the  severity  of  the  original 
vow  of  poverty.  For  this  rule  was  not  only  applied 
to  the  individual  but  to  the  Order  itself  as  an  Order, 
so  that  the  Franciscans  could  hold  no  property  or 
money  either  privately  or  in  common.  The  two 
branches  into  which  the  Order  was  divided  were  the 
Observants  and  the  Conventuals.  The  Observants, 
with  whom  S.  Bernardino  of  Siena  will  ever  be  as- 
sociated, tried  to  keep  the  strict  Franciscan  rule  of 
poverty.  The  Conventuals  compromised  with  the 
flesh  in  this  matter.  The  Observants,  however,  in 
various  countries  passed  under  different  names  and 
under  separate  government;  but  in  1897  Leo  XIII. 
re-formed  them  all  into  one  Order,  called  the  Ordo 
Minorum,  under  which  splendid  and  ancient  name 
may  they  long  flourish. 

The  Cappuccini,  another  reform  instituted  by  the 
Observant  Matteo  of  Urbino,  are  still  in  existence, 
however.  They  wear  the  original  pointed  hood 
supposed  to  have  been  designed  by  St  Francis  him- 
self.     These    Cappuccini   are   perhaps    the   strictest 


168  ROME 

Order  of  the  three.  They  are  really  as  poor  as 
church  mice,  whom  they  much  resemble.  Even  the 
ornaments  of  their  churches  are  without  intrinsic 
value,  and  they  beg  their  bread.  Thus  we  see  the 
First  Order,  at  the  present  day,  divided  into  three 
branches — namely,  Friars  Minor,  Cappuchins,  and 
Conventuals. 

The  Second  Order,  founded  in  1212  by  St  Clare, 
who  loved  St  Francis,  is  for  women.  St  Francis  gave 
her  a  Rule  in  1224,  confirmed  in  1246  by  Innocent 
IV.  Their  rule  is  probably  stricter  than  any  observed 
by  the  friars. 

There  is  a  Third  Order,  which  consists  of  those 
who,  while  living  in  the  world,  desire  to  conform  their 
lives  as  much  as  possible  to  the  rule  of  St  Francis. 
These  tertiaries,  as  they  are  called,  recite  every  day 
the  Little  Office  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  Mary  and 
the  Rosary.  They  wear  a  tiny  scapular  under 
their  clothes,  and  are  buried  in  the  habit  of  the 
Order. 

The  Friars  Minor  are  to  be  found  in  Rome  at  the 
Church  of  S.  Antonio,1  which  was  inaugurated 
December  1887.  It  has  been  built  entirely  "  by  the 
Franciscan  friars  of  Italy,  who  each  gave  the  price 
of  two  masses  weekly.  There  are  13,000  friars,  and 
about  26,000  lire  were  paid  weekly."  S.  Maria  in 
Aracceli  also  belongs  to  them,  together  with  S. 
Sebastiano  in  Via  Appia,  S.  Pietro  in  Montorio,  S. 
Francesco  a  Ripa,  the  convent  of  which  was  turned 

1  See  Hare,  Walks  in  Rome,  vol.  ii.  82. 


THE   RELIGIOUS   ORDERS  169 

into  a  barracks  by  the  Sardinian  Government.1  A 
room  is  shown  there  in  which  St  Francis  lived. 

The  Conventuals  are  to  be  found  at  SS.  Apostoli 
and  at  S.  Dorotea. 

The  Cappuccini  are  to  be  found  at  the  Cappuccini 
in  Piazza  Barberini  Via  Veneto. 

The  dress  of  the  Franciscans  is  made  of  a  coarse 
woollen  stuff,  confined  round  the  waist  by  a  cord. 
The  Friars  Minor  wear  a  deep  red-brown  habit  and 
long  cape  or  cloak,  together  with  a  small  round  hood 
of  the  same  colour,  and  white  cord  for  the  waist.  The 
Conventuals  wear  a  black  habit  and  short  cape,  a 
rosary,  white  cord  for  the  waist,  and  a  priest's  hat. 
The  Cappuccini  wear  a  brown  habit,  with  a  long 
pointed  hood,  a  short  cape  reaching  only  just  below 
the  waist,  round  which  is  a  white  cord  and  a  hanging 
rosary ;  they  also  are,  as  a  rule,  unshaven,  wearing  a 
long  beard  and  moustache.  The  Conventuals  alone 
wear  shoes,  the  Friars  Minor  and  the  Cappuccini 
being  practically  barefoot.  The  Poor  Clares  wear  a 
brown  habit  and  cloak,  and  a  black  veil ;  they,  too, 
are  practically  barefoot ;  around  the  waist  is  the  usual 
white  cord. 

The  Order  of  Mount  Carmel,  about  which,  had  it 
not  been  for  St  Teresa,  perhaps  the  greatest  of  all  the 
mystical  saints,  there  would  have  been  but  little  to 
say,  is  said  to  follow  the  Rule  of  the  prophet  Elijah. 
However  that  may  be,  we  find  a  Calabrian,  Berthold 
by  name,  founding  a  hermitage  on  Mount  Carmel  in 

1  See  Hare,  Walks  in  Rome,  vol.  ii.  256. 


170  ROME 

the  twelfth  century,  and  in  1209  the  Patriarch  of 
Jerusalem,  whose  name  has  escaped  me,  gave  him 
a  Rule  that  was  confirmed  by  Pope  Honorius  III. 
(he  who  approved  the  Rule  of  St  Francis)  in  1224. 
In  1247  Pope  Innocent  IV.  appears  to  have  changed 
the  rule  and  re-formed  the  Order  under  the  name  of 
Our  Lady  of  Mount  Carmel.  The  Order  owes  every- 
thing to  St  Teresa,  who,  finding  it  in  a  condition  of 
considerable  feebleness  in  1562,  re-formed  it.  It  is 
impossible  to  speak  adequately  of  St  Teresa  in  a  few 
lines ;  I  will  therefore  content  myself  with  referring 
the  reader  to  Alban  Butler's  "  Life,"  in  his  '  Lives  of 
the  Saints,'  or  to  her  own  works,  her  Autobiography, 
and  her  '  Interior  Castle.'  Here  it  will  be  sufficient  to 
state  that,  excepting  St  Catherine  of  Siena,  no  more 
profoundly  reasonable  and  practical  a  woman  ever 
lived.  It  is  a  vulgar  error  to  think  of  her  as  always 
in  an  hysterical  ecstasy.  She  destroyed  the  Pro- 
testant reformation  or  revolution  in  Spain  by  her 
magnificent  work,  and  even  confused  her  fellow- 
Catholics,  and  more  especially  her  confessors,  by  the 
originality  of  her  ideas.  Her  enthusiasm  was  genius, 
it  consumed  everything — herself,  too,  at  last.  A  pro- 
found mystic,  in  which  science  she  has  never  been 
surpassed,  she  was  the  friend  and  counsellor  of  St 
John  of  the  Cross,  who  to  some  extent  carried  on  her 
work — though  he  was  perhaps  more  entirely  a  mystic, 
with  less  real  genius.  She,  unlike  St  John,  never 
allowed  herself  to  be  consumed  by  despair  and  melan- 
choly.    Having  practically  revivified  religion  in  Spain 


THE    RELIGIOUS   ORDERS  171 

and  founded  thirty-two  houses  for  men  and  women, 
she  died,  being  sixty-seven  years  old,  in  1582.  She  is 
buried  at  Avila. 

Her  Rule  is  beautiful — a  kind  of  "  government  by 
love."  Such  as  are  sick  are  to  "  sleep  in  linen  and 
have  good  beds,"  such  as  are  in  health  on  straw. 
Clean  linen  is  one  of  the  signs  of  her  sons  and 
daughters,  the  latter  it  is  said  being  allowed  even  a 
flask  of  eau-de-Cologne  in  their  cells.  The  dress  is 
a  brown  habit  and  scapular,  together  with  a  white 
cloak.  In  Rome  they  are  to  be  found  at  S.  Maria 
della  Vittoria,  in  Via  Venti  Settembre,  where  there  is 
a  group  by  Bernini,1  representing  St  Teresa  killed  by 
the  Angel  of  Death,  inordinately  admired  by  M. 
Habert  in  M.  Zola's  '  Rome.'  In  spite  of  M.  Zola's 
irony,  however,  Bernini's  peculiar  genius  is  not  quite 
so  diseased  as  he  suggests.  One  may  at  least  admire 
Bernini  without  compromising  St  Teresa.  The 
Carmelite  nuns  are  found  at  various  churches  and 
convents  in  the  city. 

Having  now  very  briefly  and  inadequately  put 
before  the  reader  a  few  facts  regarding  the  Re- 
ligious Orders  proper,  there  remain  to  be  con- 
sidered still  more  briefly,  and  therefore  more  inade- 
quately, the  Sisters  of  Charity  of  all  rules,  the 
"Clerks  Regular,"  who  include  the  Jesuits,  and  such 
Canons  and  Friars  and  Congregations  as  the  Augus- 
tinians,  the  Trinitarians,  the  Passionists.  and  a  host 

1  Hare,  Walks  in  Rome,  vol.  ii.  30.     Mrs  Jameson,  Monastic  Orders, 
p.  421. 


172  ROME 

of  others.  The  reader  is  possibly  already  utterly 
confused.  It  is  only  with  a  certain  amount  of 
pains  that  he  can  arrive  at  last  at  a  clear  under- 
standing of  such  a  multitude  of  religious.  For  it 
is  in  the  Religious  Orders  that  we  see  the  great- 
ness, the  immensity  of  Rome.  It  is  probably  im- 
possible to  say  how  many  thousands,  it  may  be 
millions,  of  human  beings  are  devoted  to  the  cause 
of  Christ  and  the  Church  under  the  strict  rule  of 
some  greater  or  lesser  Order.  When  one  begins  to 
consider  then  their  work  in  all  Italy,  in  Spain, 
in  France,  in  Germany,  even  in  England  and 
America,  one  is  confronted  by  a  fact  too  often 
forgotten  in  England  —  namely,  the  tremendous 
power  of  the  Roman  Catholic  faith  over  the  hearts 
of  men. 

It  is  really  to  St  Vincent  de  Paul  that  Europe 
owes  the  inestimable  blessing  of  the  Sisters  of 
Charity,  for  about  the  year  1630  he  instituted  a 
confraternity  "  of  Charity,  to  attend  all  poor  sick 
persons  in  each  parish ;  which  institute  he  began 
in  Bresse  and  propagated  in  other  places ;  one 
called  Of  the  Dames  of  the  Cross  for  the  edu- 
cation of  young  girls,  another  of  Dames  to  serve 
the  sick  in  great  hospitals,  as  in  that  of  Hotel 
Dieu  in  Paris.  He  procured  and  directed  the 
foundation  of  several  great  hospitals,  as  in  Paris 
that  of  Foundlings,  and  that  of  poor  old  men ; 
at    Marseilles,   the    stately   hospital   for    the   galley- 


THE    RELIGIOUS    ORDERS  173 

slaves,  who  when  sick  are  there  abundantly  fur- 
nished with  every  help  both  corporal  and  spiritual." 
Thus  far  Alban  Butler.  Strictly  speaking  the  Sisters 
of  Charity  are  not  Religious.  They  number  some 
30,000,  and  are  engaged  both  in  education  and  in 
tending  the  sick.  In  Rome  they  are  to  be  found 
in  the  Via  S.  Nicola  da  Tolentino,  in  the  Via 
di  S.  Maria  in  Capella,  and  in  other  places.  Their 
dress  is  a  blue  habit  with  a  white  linen  head-dress 
and  collar ;   they  carry  a  rosary. 

In  1799  the  Sisters  of  Charity  suffered  a  reform 
from  which  grew  a  branch  called  the  Sisters  of 
St  Vincent  de  Paul ;  their  dress  is  grey  with  a 
white  head-dress,  over  which  is  a  black  veil.  Their 
work  is  of  a  similar  nature  to  that  of  the  Sisters 
of  Charity.  In  Rome  they  have  many  houses,  the 
chief  being  in  the  Bocca  della  Verita. 

Amongst  St  Vincent's  immense  works  must  be 
mentioned  the  foundation  of  the  Lazarists,  a  con- 
gregation of  seculars  who  make  four  vows — namely, 
those  of  Poverty,  Chastity,  Stability,  and  Obedience. 
"  They  devote  themselves,"  says  Alban  Butler,  "  to 
labour,  to  the  conversion  of  sinners  to  God,  and 
to  the  training  of  the  clergy." 

The  Sisters  of  Charity  are  not  to  be  confused 
with  the  Little  Sisters  of  the  Poor,  who  are  a 
foundation  of  the  nineteenth  century,  and  again 
French  in  origin.  Their  dress  is  black,  with  a 
hood    and    large    cloak.      In    Rome    they    may    be 


174  ROME 

found  in  Piazza  S.  Pietro  in  Vincoli,  and  they 
are  famous  not  only  in  Europe  but  in  England 
also. 

There  are  beside  these  two  very  famous  Sisterhoods 
more  than  sixty  others  which  are  at  the  least  rep- 
resented in  Rome,  though  in  many  cases  their  chief 
work  lies  abroad.  It  is  not  possible  even  to  name  all 
these :  some  are  of  English  origin,  as  the  Dames 
Anglaises  founded  by  Mary  Ward,  1585-1603,  and 
the  Poor  Servants  of  the  Mother  of  God  Incarnate 
who  hold  the  Church  of  St  George  and  the  English 
Martyrs  in  Piazza  di  Spagna,  and  The  Little  Com- 
pany of  Mary,  who  at  their  house  in  Via  Castel- 
fidardo  receive  invalid  or  infirm  gentlewomen. 
Some  are  French,  some  German,  some  Spanish, 
some  Austrian.  From  hearts  in  all  the  world  Eome 
has  drawn  love  and  devotion  :  it  is  not  perhaps  till 
one  realises  the  charities  of  the  Catholic  Church 
that  one  remembers  how  many  there  are  to  be 
sorry  for. 

We  now  come  to  those  numerous  bodies  of  Canons 
and  Friars,  such  as  the  Augustinians — canons,  her- 
mits, and  oblates,  and  the  Trinitarians. 

The  Augustinians  are  orders  founded  or  said  to 
have  been  founded  by  St  Augustine.  The  canons 
appear  to  have  the  best  claim  to  that  honour.  The 
history  of  the  hermits,  however,  is  interesting,  but 
so  indistinct  that  at  the  most  we  can  be  sure  that 
whatever  their  origin  it  was  of  no  great  account. 
The  authors  of  '  Christian  and  Ecclesiastical  Rome ' 


THE    RELIGIOUS    ORDERS  175 

thus  very  clearly  sum  up  the  known  history  of  the 
hermits  : 1 — 

The  Augustinians  or  Austin  Friars,  although  now  classed 
among  Mendicants,  are  really  an  order  of  hermits.  They 
trace  their  origin  to  St  Augustine,  and  to  the  year  388,  in 
Tagaste,  when  that  Father  united  some  friends  in  a  house 
near  the  church,  and  lived  with  them  according  to  a  Rule. 
The  canons,  however,  declare  that  Augustine  merely  gave 
some  rules  for  African  solitaries  with  a  view  to  regulating 
their  life,  and  the  controversy  between  the  canons  and  the 
hermits  as  to  which  were  genuine  Augustinians  had  to  be 
silenced  by  Sixtus  IV.  It  is  certain,  at  least,  that  Alex- 
ander IV.  (following  Innocent  IV.)  collected  together  the 
numerous  hermits  scattered  through  Europe,  and  united 
them  under  the  Rule  of  St  Augustine.  In  1567  Pius  V. 
aggregated  them  with  Mendicant  Friars. 

Their  dress  is  a  black  habit  with  a  cape  pointed  be- 
hind, and  a  leathern  belt  around  the  waist ;  they  wear 
a  priest's  hat. 

The  Trinitarians  are  an  order  of  friars  founded  in 
the  twelfth  century  by  Jean  de  Matha,  a  French- 
man, for  the  purpose  of  redeeming  slaves  and 
captives.  The  full  name  of  the  order  is  the  Order 
of  the  Holy  Trinity  for  the  Redemption  of  Cap- 
tives. In  Rome  they  will  be  found  at  the  little 
church  of  the  Trinita  in  Via  Condotti.  Their 
dress  is  white,  with  a  fairly  ample  black  cloak ;  on 
the  breast  they  wear  a  cross,  the  perpendicular  in 
red,  the  horizontal  in  blue. 

The   Jesuits,    the   Theatines,    and   the    Barnabites 

1  Christian  and  Ecclesiastical  Rome,  part  iii.  p.  214. 


176  ROME 

are  the  best  known  of  the  Clerks  Regular.  The 
Passionists,  so  well  known  in  England,  and  one 
or  two  other  congregations  out  of  a  total  of  some- 
thing like  forty,  I  will  briefly  describe  later. 

The  Society  of  Jesus,  founded  in  1534  by  St 
Ignatius  of  Loyola,  is  really  the  heir  of  the  Domini- 
cans, who  in  their  turn  were  the  heirs  of  the 
Benedictines,  in  the  education  of  Europe. 

St  Ignatius  was  born  in  1491,  and  was  the  heir 
to  a  most  ancient  and  noble  Spanish  family.  Martin 
Luther,  the  arch  -  revolutionary  of  the  age,  was  a 
child  of  eight  years  old  when  Ignatius  was  born, 
and  so  these  two  seem  to  have  come  into  the 
world  for  mortal  combat,  and  the  result  is  per- 
haps still  in  doubt.  Wounded  while  holding  the 
town  of  Pampeluna  in  Navarre  in  1520,  Ignatius 
read  the  '  Lives  of  the  Saints,'  and  thereupon 
decided  to  devote  his  whole  life  to  the  Blessed 
Virgin  as  her  knight.  After  many  adventures  he 
came  to  Montserrat,  where  he  formally  dedicated 
himself  to  the  Divine  service.  As  a  pilgrim  thence 
he  came  almost  starved  to  Manresa,  where  he  re- 
mained in  a  convent  of  Dominicans  for  a  whole 
yeart  Thence  he  journeyed  to  Barcelona,  and  from 
there  to  Italy  and  Rome,  and  eventually  to  Venice, 
whence  he  set  out  for  Palestine,  arriving  in  Jeru- 
salem in  September  1523. 

In  1524  he  returned  to  Venice  and  Barcelona, 
and  with  an  idea  of  acquiring  the  education  neces- 
sary   to    one  who  would   be  a  priest,   he  journeyed 


THE    RELIGIOUS    ORDERS  177 

to  Paris,  not  without  having  suffered  persecution 
from  the  Church  for  his  extraordinary  asceticism. 
He  stayed  in  Paris  for  three  years,  finding  a  friend 
in  Peter  Faber,  who  from  being  his  master  in 
the  arts  becomes  his  disciple  in  religion.  It  was 
in  Paris  also  that  he  met  Francis  Xavier.  On 
the  Feast  of  the  Assumption  in  1534  Ignatius 
founded  that  Society  of  Jesus  of  which  the  world 
has  heard  so  much.  Having  determined  on  this, 
he  and  his  friend  immediately  set  out  for  Rome, 
where  Paul  III.,  in  a  Bull  of  September  27,  1540, 
approved  the  new  Society.  The  head  of  the  Jesuits 
is  called  their  general,  and  if  one  examines  the 
Society  at  all  closely  it  is  as  an  army  it  appears, 
in  which  each  single  personality  is  sacrificed  so  that 
the  machine  itself  may  be  efficient.  The  chief 
teaching  of  the  new  order  was  Obedience,  their 
chief  business  hearing  confessions.  Unlike  every 
other  order  within  the  Catholic  Church,  they  were 
forbidden  by  their  founder  to  wear  a  distinctive 
dress  ;  they  were  to  appear  as  other  priests,  or  to 
adopt  the  dress  of  the  country  where  they  might 
be.  As  missionaries  they  have  been  marvellously 
successful  even  in  the  East.  Though  they  have 
been  expelled  from  every  country  in  Europe  at  one 
time  or  another,  the  vulgar  prejudice  against  them 
as  teachers  of  the  doctrine  that  "  one  may  do  evil 
that  good  may  come  "  appears  to  be  utterly  without 
foundation.  Yet  there  is  much  which  culture  and 
good  taste  at  least  may  bring  against  them.     Their 

M 


178  ROME 

learning  has  not  availed  to  save  them  from  a  gross 
vulgarity,  and  in  their  churches  one  may  generally 
be  sure  of  seeing  more  bad  taste  in  decoration  and 
music  than  elsewhere.  As  educators  they  are  prob- 
ably without  equals.  So  long  ago  as  the  reign  of 
James  II.  in  England  they  were  sought  after  as 
teachers  even  of  Protestant  youth.  In  Rome  they 
may  be  found  in  all  their  gilt  and  vulgar  splendour 
at  II  Gesu,  and  the  Collegio  Romano  is  in  their 
charge.  Their  general  is  to  be  found  at  Fiesole  near 
Florence — popularly  he  is  known  as  the  Black  Pope. 

The  Theatines  were  founded  in  1524  by  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Teata,  afterwards  Pope  Paul  IV.,  partly 
with  the  object,  in  which  they  failed,  of  insisting  on 
the  personal  poverty  of  the  clergy.  In  Rome  they 
may  be  found  at  the  church  of  S.  Andrea  della  Valle, 
where  is  a  miraculous  picture  of  the  Blessed  Virgin. 

The  Barnabites,  who  are  also  Clerks  Regular 
and  not  a  Congregation,  were  founded  about  1533 
and  called  after  their  church  in  Milan,  which  was 
dedicated  to  St  Barnabas.  Their  chief  work  is 
education.  Their  dress  is  a  black  habit  or  cassock, 
together  with  a  black  sash,  a  priest's  hat,  and 
collar. 

The  Passionists  are  a  Congregation  founded  by 
St  Paul  of  the  Cross,  who  lived  1694 -1775.  The 
chief  design  of  St  Paul  in  founding  this  Congre- 
gation was  the  conversion  of  England,  for  which 
country  he  had  a  great  love.  The  Passionists  are 
so   called  from  the  fact   that   one   of  their  vows  is 


THE    RELIGIOUS   ORDERS  179 

"  To  keep  alive  for  ever  in  the  hearts  and  minds 
of  the  Faithful  a  memory  of  the  Passion  of  our 
Lord."  They  came  to  England  in  the  'Forties. 
Father  Dominic,  who  received  Cardinal  Newman 
into  the  Roman  Church  in  1845,  was  a  Passionist 
Father.  Their  dress  consists  of  a  black  habit  and 
a  heavy  black  cloak.  On  the  cloak,  and  on  the  left 
breast,  is  a  white  heart,  three  nails,  and  the  words, 
"  Jesu  Christi  Passio,"  crowned  with  a  cross. 
Around  the  waist  is  a  belt  of  leather.  They  also 
wear  a  rosary,  sandals,  and  a  priest's  hat.  In 
Rome  they  may  be  found  on  the  Ccelian  Hill  at 
the  Church  of  SS.  Giovanni  and  Paolo. 

Thus  we  have  seen,  in  utterly  inadequate  fashion, 
it  is  true,  but  still  we  have  seen  something  of  the 
vast  organisation  of  the  Catholic  Church.  It  is  not 
among  the  secular  priests  that  we  shall  find  the 
real  strength  of  the  Church,  at  any  rate  in  Italy, 
but  in  her  Religious.  Such  of  them  as  I  have 
known  personally,  and  always  by  chance,  have  been 
simple  and  holy  men,  whose  one  idea  was  the 
service  of  God  or  of  His  poor.  Their  lives  are  not 
susceptible  of  the  coarser  joys  that  we  experience, 
taken  up  with  life  as  we  are  and  only  fearful  of 
death.  They,  more  simple  by  far,  think  of  death 
as  the  valley  down  which  they  must  travel  to  meet 
their  Love.  Is  this  the  reason  of  their  cheerful- 
ness ?  I  have  never  in  all  my  life  met  a  melancholy 
monk ;  they  all  seem  inspired  by  a  great  gladness, 
that  it  may  be  the  world  does  not  desire  to  notice. 


VIII. 

PLAIN-SONG   ON   THE   AVENTINE    HILL. 

It  is  curious  that  in  the  great  capital  of  Christianity 
it  should  be  so  difficult  to  hear  good  music.  Coming 
to  Rome  from  London,  where  a  great  revival  of 
music  seemed  on  the  point  of  being  achieved  in 
the  English  Church,  it  was  with  profound  disap- 
pointment that,  after  weeks  of  searching  and  hope 
deferred,  I  remembered  that  in  Rome  the  most 
one  could  hope  for  was  to  avoid  M.  Gounod  and 
his  erotics. 

Never  shall  I  forget  the  immense  and  futile  ser- 
vices at  II  Gesu.  Lasting  as  they  did  for  many 
hours,  decorated  as  they  were  with  every  sort  of 
meretricious  furbelow  that  it  is  possible  for  music 
to  bear,  they  seemed  to  bear  witness,  not  to  the 
cunning  or  adaptability  of  the  Society  of  Jesus, 
but  to  its  unmeasured  vulgarity ;  for  the  choir  of 
men,  to  which  was  added  a  few  castrati,  was  noisy, 
and  in  the  intervals  of  singing  chatted  and  spat 
without  mercy;  while  the  large  and  magnificent 
church,    hung    with    glass   chandeliers   of  the   most 


PLAIN-SONG  181 

frightful,  surrounded  by  altars  decorated  with  out- 
rageous artificial  flowers,  seemed  at  least  in  keeping 
with  the  music.  And  again  on  December  31,  at 
Vespers  and  Benediction,  this  immense  church  was 
filled  with  people,  English  and  American  visitors 
and  tourists,  Germans  and  Frenchmen,  and  innum- 
erable Romans,  who  for  more  than  three  hours 
listened  to  the  efforts  of  two  organs  and  a  choir, 
while  a  small  army  of  attendants  lighted  hundreds 
of  candles  all  over  the  church.  As  the  nearer  of 
the  two  organs  was  some  eighty  feet  above  the 
priests,  and  some  forty  or  fifty  feet  away,  the 
organ  and  choir  were  invariably  half  a  bar  or  so 
in  front  of  the  priest,  which  added  to  the  immense 
wonder  of  the  whole  musical  performance. 

But  it  is  not  in  II  Gesu  alone  that  one  is 
astonished  at  the  taste  of  the  Romans  in  Church 
music.  At  St  Peter's,  though  it  is  occasionally  pos- 
sible to  hear  Palestrina  and  the  old  masters,  it  is 
more  frequently  some  atrocious  concoction  of  a 
modern,  sung  by  voices  that  seem  like  splintering 
glass  or  shrieking  steel,  that  one  hears.  And  on 
many  a  night  of  December  I  have  wended  my  way 
about  five  o'clock  down  the  Via  Condotti  to  a  little 
poor  church,  just  before  one  comes  to  the  Corso, 
named  the  Trinita,  where  children  sing  the  magnif- 
icent litany  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  to  an  old  eighteenth 
century  air,  almost  a  dance  measure,  in  which  the 
Virgin  bows  in  acquiescence  and  in  answer  to  each 
"  Ora  pro  nobis."     The  voices  of  the  children  were 


182  ROME 

rather  rough,  and  the  priest  somewhat  old  and  un- 
certain, but  in  the  very  simplicity  of  the  children 
and  the  utterly  poor  folk  who  came  there  I  found 
something  of  that  aesthetic  sincerity  which  was  a 
stranger  to  II  Gesu,  and  which,  it  may  be,  Bach 
was  the  last  composer  to  understand  or  feel.  It 
was  during  one  of  those  sudden  and  sad  evenings 
of  December  that  I  became  acquainted  with  a  Roman 
Catholic  gentleman  whom  I  had  noticed  invariably 
in  the  same  place  in  this  little  church,  before  a  pic- 
ture of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  where  a  slender  taper 
was  always  burning.  One  night,  on  our  leaving  the 
church  together,  he  courteously  held  back  the  heavy 
leathern  curtain  for  me,  and  introduced  himself. 
It  seemed  that  he,  like  myself,  was  a  lover  of  the 
old  music,  and  especially  of  Plain-song,  the  which 
he  professed  himself  willing  to  walk  any  distance 
to  hear  well  sung.  I  lamented  that  it  seemed  im- 
possible to  find  Plain-song  well  or  ill  sung  in  Rome. 
"Have  you  searched  the  monasteries?"  said  he. 
I  replied  that  I  had  not,  as  I  supposed  it  was 
necessary  to  be  introduced.  "  If  you  will  meet  me 
next  Sunday  morning,"  said  he,  "  at  eight  o'clock, 
at  the  bottom  of  the  Spanish  steps  in  the  Piazza 
di  Spagna,  you  shall  hear  a  Plain-song  Mass  sung 
as  you  have  probably  never  heard  it  before."  I 
thanked  him  and  promised  to  be  there. 

On  the  following  Sunday  morning  I  was  at  my 
post  to  the  minute,  and  we  set  off  down  the  Via  di 
Propaganda,  through  the  Piazza  di  San  Silvestro  into 


PLAIN-SONG  183 

the  Corso,  to  the  Piazza  Venezia,  and  from  there  to 
the  Capitol,  which  we  crossed,  passing  down  the 
steps  into  the  Via  della  Consolazione.  The  Forum, 
with  its  fringe  of  churches  and  temples  of  a  forgotten 
religion,  lay  below  us  in  the  sunshine,  strewn  with 
the  immortal  limbs  of  the  old  gods,  while  the  bells 
sounded  from  innumerable  cupolas,  telling  us  that 
Christ  was  at  that  moment  descended  to  their  altars. 
My  friend,  seeming  to  read  my  thoughts  —  the  in- 
evitable Roman  thoughts  that  overcome  the  stranger 
— smiled.  "  It  was  in  these  temples,"  said  he,  "now 
so  ruinous,  that  the  Plain-song  was  born,  or  at  least 
grew  up,  coming  to  us  Romans  it  may  be  from 
Egypt,  in  the  train  of  some  victorious  emperor,  or 
with  the  religion  and  priests  of  Isis  or  some  other 
religion ;  for  Plain-song  is  as  old  as  the  world  itself 
almost,  and  to  us  at  least/'  he  said,  smiling  again, 
"the  only  real  music,  for  once  having  heard  it,  you 
will  forsake  everything  for  it  at  last  There  are  more 
than  one  in  the  monastery  to  which  I  am  taking  you, 
who,  having  become  enamoured  of  the  Plain  chant, 
have  forsaken  the  world  in  order  to  devote  their  lives 
to  its  study  in  that  place  where  alone  it  can  be 
properly  understood  or  studied  at  all,  a  Benedictine 
monastery."  As  we  passed  the  old  Temple  of  Vesta 
and  came  out  beside  Tiber,  where  of  old  the  Mar- 
morata  had  received  the  precious  marbles  of  the 
world,  the  golden-tinted  blocks  from  Greece,  and  the 
white  rocks  from  the  quarries  of  Luna,  all  the 
strength  of  Republican  Rome  and  the  red  years  of 


184  ROME 

the  Empire  seemed  to  come  back  to  me  up  that  old 
river  through  which  Caesar  himself  had  swam  in  the 
depth  of  winter.  But  my  companion  continued,  "  It 
is  just  here  we  must  turn  off,  for,  as  you  have  doubt- 
less already  guessed,  it  is  to  Sant'  Anselmo,  the  new 
monastery  on  the  Aventine,  that  we  are  going  for 
Mass." 

Far  above  us  on  the  hill  rose  the  tower  of  the 
monastery,  and  even  as  we  turned  up  the  Via  Sabina 
the  bell  began  to  ring.  A  large  garden  surrounds  the 
monastery,  which  rises  brand  new  from  among  the 
old  trees  of  the  wooded  Aventine,  the  youngest  son 
of  Rome,  a  Religious,  vowed  to  God.  Begun  in 
1892,  Sant'  Anselmo  was  practically  finished  in  1896. 
It  has  been  built  by  Leo  XIII.  as  a  college  for 
"Black  Benedictines"  of  every  nation.  An  Abbas 
Primas,  nominated  by  the  Pope  for  ten  years,  is  the 
head  of  the  college,  which  is  entirely  international, 
this  fact  being  emphasised  by  the  appointment  of 
Abbe  Hemptinne,  a  Belgian, —  not  an  Italian, —  as 
Abbas  Primas,  After  passing  through  the  great 
gates  and  along  a  short  gravelled  drive  we  came  to 
a  shady  cloister,  in  the  midst  of  which  was  a  great 
marble  basin  in  which  were  some  gold  fish.  To  our 
left  were  the  main  buildings  of  the  monastery,  in  front 
of  us  the  church.  As  we  opened  the  door  a  brother 
came  forward  and  motioned  us  very  courteously  to- 
wards a  long  bench  set  against  the  west  wall  of  the 
nave.  The  church  is  very  broad  and  simple,  the  choir 
being   larger  than   the   chancel   and   nave   together. 


PLAIN-SONG  185 

Over  the  high  altar,  which  seemed  to  be  the  only  altar 
in  the  church,  is  a  great  baldachino  of  marble.  There 
was  no  decoration  of  any  sort  about  the  church  save 
such  as  the  architect  had  carved  in  the  stone  and 
brick.  The  altar  was  very  simple,  and  so  soon  as 
Mass  began  six  candles  were  lighted,  and  there  was  a 
blessed  absence  of  artificial  flowers.  More  than  any 
other  church  in  Rome  it  reminded  one  of  home ;  in 
its  simple  and  unadorned  beauty  it  was  more  like  an 
English  church  of  the  seventeenth  century  than  any- 
thing I  had  seen  in  Rome.  The  monks,  some  four  or 
five  hundred  (I  should  say),  sat  in  choir  in  the  black 
robe  of  the  Order,  as  in  a  college  chapel,  facing  north 
and  south.  The  music,  which  was  sung  in  unison, 
without  harmony  of  any  sort,  was  unaccompanied, 
what  appeared  to  be  a  small  harmonium,  somewhere 
out  of  sight,  giving  the  note ;  otherwise  the  male 
voice  was  the  only  instrument  used.  The  opening 
psalms  were  not  sung,  but  as  it  were  declaimed,  with 
a  pause  of  a  full  second  at  the  colon  in  each  verse. 
At  the  Gloria  Patri  all  faced  the  altar,  bending  very 
low,  almost  double  indeed.  It  was  admirable,  this 
method  of  chanting  the  psalms  giving  to  them  a  kind 
of  beautiful  monotony  or  eternity  that  suggested  an 
incantation.  My  friend  and  I  were  the  only  persons 
present  with  the  monks,  and  we  remained  alone 
through  all  that  matchless  service. 

The  Kyrie  was  sung  to  an  exquisite  and  simple 
tune  of  the  old  Plain-song  that  changed  with  the 
Christi  eleison  and  again  for   the   last   three   Kyrie 


186  ROME 

eleison.  The  cry  of  humanity  seemed  to  have  lost 
something  of  its  bitterness,  to  carry  within  itself 
some  assurance  of  being  heard ;  and  as  these  hun- 
dreds of  men's  voices,  clear  and  limpid  with  some 
suggestion,  some  tone  in  them  never  heard  in  the 
voices  of  those  in  the  world,  rose  in  magnificent 
unison,  I  knew  that  I  had  found  it  at  last,  the  true 
Plain-song,  that  is  the  elder  sister  to  Fra  Angelico's 
triptyches,  fulfilled  with  the  desire  to  express  worship 
and  that  only.  With  a  gracious  swiftness  that  sug- 
gested attention,  the  loins  being  girt  and  the  mind 
ready  and  anxious  for  the  accomplishing  of  some 
mystery  or  miracle,  the  service  proceeded.  Here 
there  was  no  elaboration  of  that  which  was  already 
perfectly  adequate.  The  Gloria  in  Excelsis,  sung  to 
a  magnificent  old  tune,  in  a  kind  of  antiphon  between 
those  who  were  appointed  as  Cantors  and  the  rest  of 
the  college,  seemed  almost  for  the  first  time  to  be  the 
real  song  of  the  angels  announcing  to  the  world  the 
"  glad  tidings  of  great  joy,"  the  sweet  advent  of  the 
Eucharist.  Amid  those  lights  in  the  sunshine,  that 
streamed  into  the  church,  soon,  ah !  soon,  we  too 
might  look  for  Jesus,  even  as  the  shepherds  of  old, 
nor  does  the  world  marvel  the  less  at  our  story  than 
at  theirs. 

Through  the  halt-open  door  came  the  sound  of  a 
fountain,  that  seemed  to  rise  with  the  irresistible 
exaltation  of  the  music.  "  Quoniam  tu  solus  sanctus  : 
tu  solus  Dominus :  tu  solus  altissimus,  Jesu  Christo 
cum  sancto  spiritu  in  Gloria  Dei  Patris.     Amen." 


PLAIN-SONG  187 

Ah !  after  the  certainty  of  that  chant  there  was 
no  need  of  those  indecent  and  prolonged  repetitions 
that  have  made  the  liturgy  a  kind  of  ridiculous  non- 
sense verse,  a  kind  of  intricate  jugglery  with  words. 
Sung  straight  through,  certain  from  the  beginning 
of  its  message,  it  was  as  though  faith  had  suddenly 
become  incarnate  in  the  heart,  as  though  the  music 
had  retained  for  the  words  the  immortality  that  had 
been  stolen  from  them  by  the  scepticism  of  bad 
music  and  musicians  that  have  loved  many  women. 
Far  beyond  the  music  of  love,  with  its  entrancing 
and  sensuous  passion,  beyond  the  dear  dreams  of 
Mozart,  and  the  profound  trouble  and  discontent 
of  Beethoven,  in  a  region  of  which  the  tinselled 
music  of  Gounod  never  dreamed,  the  Plain  -  song, 
the  music  of  worship,  has  preserved  the  very  essence 
of  Christianity,  its  humility,  its  faith,  its  immortal 
claim  on  the  heart  and  the  intelligence. 

The  Credo,  sung  by  all  in  unison,  became  not 
a  mere  statement  of  more  or  less  doubtful  facts 
but  a  very  hymn  of  triumph,  not  without  joy.  It 
passed  as  swiftly  as  a  procession  gay  with  banners 
and  the  implements  of  war,  displayed  for  their 
splendour  and  their  beauty.  One  stood  instinct- 
ively all  the  while  with  a  kind  of  eagerness,  so 
real  was  this  magnificent  and  old  story  become 
under  the  inspiration  of  the  life-giving  chant,  reach- 
ing at  last  a  homely  and  perfect  assurance  almost, 
as  at  the  mention  of  the  name  of  one's  birthplace 
in  a  far  land.       "  Et  unam  sanctam    Catholicam   et 


188  ROME 

Apostolicam  Ecclesiam.  Confiteor  unum  baptisma 
in  remissionem  peccatorum.  Et  expecto  resurrec- 
tionem  mortuorum  et  vitam  venturi  saeculi.     Amen." 

What  a  solemn  character,  not  without  a  kind  of 
joy,  a  kind  of  ecstasy,  has  the  Plain  chant !  Those 
"discreet  embraces,"  that  are  given  at  the  Com- 
munion, seem  perfectly  in  place,  some  new  kind  of 
Love  having  suddenly  been  born  into  the  world,  and 
the  music  has  spoken  to  us  even  in  its  most  profound 
rhapsody  of  thanksgiving.  The  Agnus  Dei,  sung  to 
the  Plain  chant,  seems  no  mere  heartfelt  petition,  but 
the  very  ecstatic  song  of  the  resurrection.  What  the 
later  musicians,  yes,  even  Palestrina  and  Vittoria, 
have  made  of  the  liturgy  is  something  very  different 
from  that  most  precious  commemoration  of  Love 
concealed  and  preserved  in  the  Plain  -  song.  And 
while  all  the  world  has  followed  the  lighter  and  more 
sensuous  tunes,  the  sons  of  St  Benedict,  scholars  as 
they  are,  have  been  content  with  the  beauty  that  is 
older  than  their  mighty  founder,  that  has  for  ages, 
it  may  be  ere  Christ  came  to  save  the  world, 
captured  the  hearts  of  men  for  God.  And  we  too, 
who  desire  not  a  fair  thing,  but  the  fairest  of  all,  are 
content  that  the  Jesuits  should  draw  thousands  and 
tens  of  thousands  by  the  vulgarity  that  appeals  so 
strongly  to  multitudes,  so  long  as  there  is  a  refuge 
in  the  Benedictine  abbeys  of  the  world,  and  not 
least  on  the  Aventine  Hill. 

"Lucus  Aventino  suberat  niger  ilicis  umbra 
Quo  posses  viso  dicere,  Numen  inest." 


IX. 


AT    NAPLES. 

IN  one  gift  Naples  is  supreme  over  all  the  cities  of 
Italy,  nay,  over  all  the  cities  of  the  world,  with- 
out the  exception  even  of  Madrid,  namely,  in  noise. 
To  me,  at  least,  Naples  is  full  of  terror  and  indescrib- 
able horror  or  disgust.  It  is  not  merely  the  noise, 
which  to  some  extent  at  least  may  be  avoided,  but  a 
kind  of  animalism  I  find  in  her,  that  seems  to  have 
destroyed  the  spirit  or  driven  it  mad.  Civilisation 
appears  to  have  been  swept  away  suddenly  in  some 
terrible  disaster,  and  man  finds  himself  with  a  number 
of  his  mechanical  contrivances  back  in  the  horror 
of  a  strange  unfortunate  age  in  which  his  soul  was 
heavy  with  chains. 

Of  her  famous  Museum  the  whole  world  has  ever 
been  envious.  Bronzes,  mosaics,  statues,  sculpture : 
in  each  department  her  treasures  are  almost  innumer- 
able. Within  these  solemn  corridors  Madame  Venus 
Kallipyge  dwells,  and  receives  her  admirers ;  the 
bronzes  and  frescoes  of  Pompeii  have  been  collected 
here  in  bewildering  abundance.     The  British  Consul, 


igo  NAPLES 

Mr  E.  Neville  Rolfe,  has  edited  and  translated  *  A 
Complete  Handbook  to  the  Naples  Museum,'  from 
the  original  work  by  Signor  Domenico  Monaco. 
No  more  adequate  guide  exists.  The  traveller  can- 
not do  better  than  buy  it.  The  price  is  but  three 
francs.  But  for  the  tourist,  who  differs  considerably 
from  the  traveller,  there  is  little  to  see  in  Naples 
when  once  he  has  raced  through  the  museum.  For 
him  remain  the  long  excursions — which  are  as  com- 
fortable as  may  be  with  the  aid  of  Messrs  Cook — 
to  Pompeii,  to  Vesuvius,  to  Sorrento,  to  Capri  and 
Castellammare,  and,  farther  yet,  to  Amalfi  and 
Salerno  and  the  Temples  at  Psestum,  on  the  south- 
east ;  while  on  the  north  -  west  are  Pozzuoli  and 
Cumae  and  Baiae  and  the  great  Cape  of  Misenum. 
Much  the  most  interesting  excursions  are  those  to 
Pompeii  and  to  Paestum  ;  much  the  most  beautiful 
is  that  to  Castellammare  by  train,  with  the  drive 
to  Sorrento.  All  these  places  the  traveller  will  visit 
at  his  leisure ;  but  the  tourist,  goaded  on  by  time 
and  his  inexorable  desire,  must  plan  prodigiously 
and  economise  sleep.  A  few  suggestions  as  to  the 
best  way  to  negotiate  a  peculiarly  difficult  piece  of 
country  may  not  be  out  of  place  in  a  work  so  un- 
practical as  this. 

So  long  as  Naples  itself  remains  unseen,  live  in 
Naples,  if  possible  in  one  of  the  hotels  above  the 
city  on  the  Corso  Vittorio  Emanuele.  When  the 
traveller  is  tired  of  Naples,  before  he  makes  any  of 
the   longer   excursions,  and   before   he    has   been  to 


NAPLES  191 

Pompeii  more  than  once,  but  after  he  has  visited 
Pozzuoli,  Cumse,  and  Baiss,  let  him  go  either  to 
Castellammare,  where  there  is  a  good  hotel — Hotel 
Quisisana — or  to  Sorrento,  to  which  he  must  drive 
from  Castellammare.  From  either  of  these  places 
he  will  find  it  easier,  pleasanter,  and  less  fatiguing 
to  visit  Pompeii  and  Capri  than  from  Naples,  and 
he  will  be  able  to  enjoy  at  his  leisure  the  delight- 
ful country.  From  Castellammare  or  Sorrento  he 
should  proceed  to  Salerno,  from  which  place  Amalfi 
and  Paestum  may  be  most  easily  visited.  The  drive 
from  Salerno  to  Amalfi  is  an  especially  splendid  piece 
of  engineering,  and  should  please  the  Englishman; 
while  the  journey,  partly  by  train,  from  Salerno  to 
Paestum  is  nothing  compared  with  the  journey  from 
Naples  to  Paestum  and  back  in  one  day.  Since  it  is 
impossible  to  sleep  at  Psestum  on  account  of  fever, 
this  extremely  tiring  journey  is  usually  undertaken. 
To  return  now  to  Naples  herself.  Her  beauty, 
chiefly  of  situation,  has  from  the  beginning  been 
praised  by  the  poets,  and  has  passed  into  a  common- 
place.    From  Virgil,  who  sings — 

"  Ilia  Vifgilium  me  tempore  dulcis  alebat 
Parthenope,  studiis  florentem  ignobilis  oti," 

to  the  innumerable  song-writers  whose  sweet  unin- 
telligible words  strike  on  the  ear  of  the  traveller 
everywhere  in  the  country  round  Naples  and  in  the 
city  herself,  all  have  conspired  together  to  pronounce 
Naples  beautiful  in  every  language  of  the  world.  Yet 
Naples  herself,  to  one  traveller  at  least,  is  not  beauti- 


ig2  NAPLES 

fill,  save  perhaps  from  one  point  of  view.  It  is  her 
situation  on  a  noble  and  magnificent  bay,  under  a  soft 
and  ineffable  sky,  on  the  shores  of  the  midland  sea, 
that  has  brought  to  her  her  fame.  And  even  as  she  is 
to  be  seen  from  the  sea  in  early  morning,  when  she  is 
lovely  indeed,  I  protest  Genoa  is  not  less  beautiful. 
Circumstances,  however,  have  conspired  to  throw 
over  Naples  a  mantle  of  romance.  Vesuvius  guards 
her  with  his  artillery ;  many  Caesars  have  slept 
beside  her.  So  to  the  world  that  has  not  seen  her 
she  remains  the  ever  enchanting  mistress,  compel- 
ling the  longing  thoughts  of  strangers,  a  true  Siren, 
from  whom  perhaps  we  shall  receive  not  Death  but 
Disillusion.     Yet  even  to-day 

"  Semiputata  tibi  frondosa  vitis  in  ulmo  est," 

and  we,  too,  can  perhaps  catch  the  spirit  of  the  south 
wind  with  Virgil  when  he  says — 

"  Atque  equidem,  extremo  ni  jam  sub  fine  laborum 
Vela  traham,  et  terris  festinem  advertere  proram  , 
Forsitan  et  pingues  hortos  quae  cura  colendi 
Ornaret,  canerem,  biferique  rosaria  Paesti." 

The  twice  blossoming  roses  of  Paestum — ah!  they 
are  gone  with  the  years :  no  roses  bloom  now  beside 
the  lonely  and  desolate  temples  of  that  eternal  but 
forgotten  religion ;  only  in  the  mind  of  a  solitary 
traveller  they  bloom  across  the  plain  as  never  be- 
fore, golden  and  red  and  white. 

But  I  think  in  all  Naples  the  chiefest  sight  is  the 
Neapolitans.     One  is  never  tired  of  watching  them 


THE   NEAPOLITANS  193 

either  in  the  Toledo  or  on  Santa  Lucia.     Gay  and 
full  of  spirit,   they  are  the   perfect   example  of  the 
happiness  to  be   found   in    sunshine   and    blue   sky. 
Poor  they  not  seldom  are  beyond  our  dreams,  yet  never 
with  our  melancholy.     They  take  no  thought  for  the 
morrow  while  it  is  to-day.     Enough  for  them  that 
the  Saints  are  still  in  heaven,  and  not  yet  the  Padre 
Eterno  has  bidden  themselves  return  from  the  earth. 
Even  their  own  misfortunes  will  amuse  them,  they 
will  laugh  while  they  watch  themselves  starve.     They 
will  sing  or  play  the  mandolin   for  you  while  they 
know  not  where  they  will  sleep  or  sup.     Their  betters 
are  like  to  them.     After  the  Races  they  will  drive  in 
the  Toledo  with    every  sort    of  magnificence,    their 
carriages  flaming  with  their  arms  and  crests,  their 
servants  before  and  sometimes  behind  too,  themselves 
covered  with  jewels,  and  it  may  very  well  be  without 
a  shirt  on   their  backs   or  a  soldo  in  their  purses. 
They  will  sacrifice  everything  to  outdo  one  another 
in   display,  they  will  starve   themselves   for   a  week 
in   order   to   be    envied    on  the  eighth   day.      Their 
cruelty  to  their  beasts  has,  I  think,  been  exaggerated, 
and  is  at  any  rate  in  many  cases  only  an  exuberance 
of  spirits.     They  are,  however,  utterly  without  mercy, 
even  to  their  favourite  Saints,  whom  they  will  curse 
as  heartily  as  they  will  bless,  with  as  great  a  con- 
tempt as  at  another  time  reverence.     Be  sure  they 
will  cheat  you  if  they  can,  either  with  bad  money 
or  by  sharp  practice.     Trust  none  further  than  you 
can  see  him,  and  not  so  far  if  you  can  help  it.     They 

N 


194  NAPLES 

are  not  greater  gamblers  than  the  English,  I  think, 
but  they  are  as  great  with  less  excuse.  The  Govern- 
ment lottery,  which  is  more  flourishing  in  Naples 
than  elsewhere,  is  only  another  example  of  the  ridicu- 
lous venality  of  the  Italian  Government.  The  Govern- 
ment benefits  to  the  extent  of  many  millions  a  year 
from  this  institution — in  fact,  without  it  it  is  doubt- 
ful that  the  State  could  be  carried  on.  That  they 
speak  among  themselves  more  by  signs  than  by 
words  is  a  commonplace  that  is  scarcely  true.  It 
is  not  that  they  use  fewer  words — far  from  it — but 
that  they  use  more  gesticulation.  Less  civilised  than 
ourselves  perhaps,  the  Neapolitan  is  at  least  never 
vulgar  in  our  fashion.  He  may  be  a  villain,  but  he 
is  a  courteous  one ;  he  may  be  a  thief,  but  he  steals 
politely ;  he  may  murder  you  for  much  less  than  a  lira, 
but  he  does  it  with  perfect  grace.  Even  his  curses 
sound  magnificent.  Altogether  he  is  not  to  be  de- 
spised. Yet  his  brother  Italians  do  despise  him 
heartily — chiefly  because  he  is  not  industrious.  Of 
all  Italians  he  is  the  only  one  who  is  not,  and  curious 
as  it  may  seem,  in  spite  of  the  bad  government  and 
hideous  tyranny  under  the  late  Bourbon  Kingdom 
of  the  Two  Sicilies,  he  is  the  very  person  who  most 
ardently  desires  the  return  of  the  old  kings. 

In  art  he  has  never  been  very  great — most  of  that 
which  he  possesses  he  has  found  or  stolen  or  bought. 
His  churches  are  scarcely  worth  a  visit,  his  picture- 
gallery  is  rich  with  the  works  of  alien  masters. 
Nature  having  given   him    so   much    natural  beauty 


BALE  195 

seems  to  have  denied  him  the  creative  gift.  Thus 
most  of  his  bronzes  and  statues  and  frescoes  and 
mosaics  she  has  given  him  out  of  her  bosom,  where 
they  lay  hid  for  hundreds  of  years.  Of  these  I 
do  not  think  the  Neapolitan  proud;  he  is  aware  of 
them  as  his  inalienable  right,  and  thinks  more  fre- 
quently of  them  than  the  Londoner  does  of  his  per- 
haps greater  treasures  in  the  British  Museum.  The 
traveller  will  decide  at  once  that  the  Museum  and 
Pompeii  are  the  two  most  valuable  things  for  him  to 
study.  When  masterpieces  of  ancient  sculpture  are 
to  be  seen  it  is  stupid  to  waste  time,  precious  even  to 
the  leisured  traveller,  over  Neapolitan  work  in  the 
churches  and  squares. 

One  must  drive  to  Baias,  if  one  would  see  it,  and 
indeed  it  is  worth  seeing.  It  was  during  a  visit  to  the 
so  -  called  Temple  of  Diana  there  that  I  saw  some 
extremely  ugly  fat  old  women,  pathetically  avaricious, 
dance  the  Tarantella.  Dance,  do  I  say  ?  Nay, 
waddle,  would  better  express  their  ridiculous  evolu- 
tions. In  the  temple  of  the  chaste  and  perfect 
goddess,  the  sweet  and  mighty  huntress,  I,  half  in 
tears,  watched  these  fat  and  filthy  peasants  pass 
through  the  figures  of  their  dance.  Indeed,  indeed, 
she  had  fallen !  not  before  the  rude  passion  of  St 
Paul,  nor  before  the  Christian  centuries  and  their 
new  ideal  and  their  splendour,  not  till  now  was  she 
utterly  cast  out,  Diana,  the  huntress  of  men.  Sud- 
denly as  I  looked  on  this  disgusting  spectacle  a  great 
hound   peered  into   the   cavernous   temple  from  the 


i96  NAPLES 

broad  daylight,  and  divining — it  must  have  been  so — 
my  misery,  insinuated  his  great  cold  nose  into  my 
hand.  We  alone  in  all  the  forgetful  world  remem- 
bered splendid  days. 

At  Cumse,  it  is  necessary  not  to  miss  the  charm- 
ing little  amphitheatre  dug  out  of  the  turf,  now 
green  with  vines ;  in  its  classic  and  homely  use- 
fulness it  is  immortal.  All  this  country  is  immortal ; 
passages  forgotten  since  boyhood  from  Virgil  and 
Lucretius  spring  to  the  lips  almost  at  every  step. 
From  the  road  near  Monte  Nuovo  there  is  a  splendid 
view  of  the  desolate  Lake  Avernus. 

From  the  left  part  of  this  [(the  Lucrine  Lake)  says 
Evelyn]  we  walked  to  the  Lake  of  Avernus,  of  a  round 
form  and  totally  environed  with  mountains.  This  lake  was 
famed  by  the  poet  for  the  gates  of  hell  by  which  ^Eneas 
made  his  descent,  and  where  they  sacrificed  to  Pluto 
and  the  Manes.  The  waters  are  of  a  remarkable  black 
colour,  but  I  tasted  of  them  without  danger  ;  hence  they 
fain  that  the  river  Styx  has  its  source.  .  .  .  Opposite  to 
this,  having  now  lighted  our  torches,  we  enter  a  vast  cave, 
in  which,  having  gone  about  two  hundred  paces,  we  pass 
a  narrow  entry  which  leads  us  into  a  room  of  about  ten 
paces  long.  .  .  .  Here  is  a  short  cell,  or  rather  niche,  cut 
out  of  the  solid  rock,  somewhat  resembling  a  couch,  in 
which  they  report  that  the  Sybilla  lay  and  uttered  her 
oracles,  but  it  is  supposed  by  most  to  have  been  a  bath 
only. 

That  was  written  nearly  three  hundred  years  ago, 
but  for  all  the  change  to  be  seen  it  might  have 
been   written   yesterday.      In   truth,  whether   or   no 


AMALFI  197 

old  Hades  still  guards  his  gates,  this  is  even  a 
somewhat  melancholy  excursion  especially  to  him 
who  has  read  his  Virgil.  The  nature  of  the  country — 
volcanic  and  gloomy,  the  still  and  desolate  lake,  the 
ruins  everywhere  around  one,  the  spare  population 
after  the  crowding  and  noise  of  Naples,  affect  one 
to  melancholy,  while  if  the  sky  is  smiling  the  road 
is  deep  with  dust,  and  if  the  sky  is  cloudy  the 
gloominess  is  but  deepened. 

On  the  other  side  of  Naples  all  is  different. 
Sorrento  is  if  possible  more  delightful  than  Castel- 
lammare.  A  summer  spent  in  these  places  is  charm- 
ing, the  heat  is  not  usually  oppressive,  and  the  sea 
is  ever  at  hand  to  cool  and  refresh.  There  is  but 
little  more  sightseeing  to  be  done,  but  every  turn 
of  the  road,  every  whisper  of  wind,  every  shiver  of 
the  olive  trees,  the  very  silence  in  the  sunshine,  is 
pregnant  with  a  kind  of  history,  a  kind  of  joyful  yet 
sad  memory  of  a  departed  world. 

At  Amain,  in  the  lovely  old  Capuchin  monastery, 
now  an  hotel,  one  is  merely  consumed  with  happi- 
ness. It  is  as  though  one  had  suddenly  been  born 
into  a  new  world  that  he  had  but  dimly  perceived 
before  in  the  dreams  of  his  youth.  Driving  to 
Amain,  perhaps  from  Vietri,  one  comes  by  one  of 
"the  loveliest  pieces  of  coast  scenery  in  Italy.  Its 
only  rivals  are  the  roads  from  Castellammare  to 
Sorrento,  from  Genoa  to  Sestri,  and  from  Nice  to 
Mentone."  Civilisations  and  histories  lie  deep  upon 
this  shore,  unfathomably  deep  for  the  most  part. 


ig8  NAPLES 

It  is  not  easy  [says  J.  A.  Symonds]  to  imagine  the  time 
when  Amalfi  and  Atrani  were  one  town  with  docks  and 
arsenais  and  harbourage  for  their  associated  fleets,  and 
when  these  little  communities  were  second  in  importance 
to  no  naval  power  of  Christian  Europe.  The  Byzantine 
Empire  lost  its  hold  on  Italy  during  the  eighth  century, 
and  after  this  time  the  history  of  Calabria  is  mainly  con- 
cerned with  the  republics  of  Naples  and  Amalfi,  their  con- 
flict with  the  Lombard  Dukes  of  Benevento,  their  opposi- 
tion to  the  Saracens,  and  their  final  subjugation  by  the 
Norman  conquerors  of  Sicily.  Between  the  year  839  a.d., 
when  Amalfi  freed  itself  from  the  control  of  Naples  and  the 
yoke  of  Benevento,  and  the  year  1101,  when  Roger  of 
Hauteville  incorporated  the  republic  in  his  kingdom  of  the 
Two  Sicilies,  this  city  was  the  foremost  naval  and  commercial 
port  of  Italy. 

It  is  not  easy  to  realise  it,  for  how  are  the  mighty 
fallen!  To-day  Amalfi  is  but  a  village  on  the  sea- 
coast,  precipitous,  forgotten.  She  who  was  the 
Athens  of  the  middle  age,  so  that  "  her  scholars  in 
the  darkest  depths  of  the  dark  ages  owned  and 
prized  a  famous  copy  of  the  Pandects  of  Justinian, 
and  her  gold  coinage  of  Tari  formed  the  standard 
currency  before  the  Florentines  had  stamped  the 
Lily  upon  the  Tuscan  florin;  and  her  seamen  de- 
served the  fame  of  having  first  used,  if  they  did 
not  actually  invent,  the  compass." 

The  Hotel  Cappuccini  at  Amalfi,  where  Signor 
Vozzi  so  cheerfully  dispenses  his  hospitality,  has 
since  the  thirteenth  century  been  in  the  posses- 
sion  of  the   Capuchin    Friars.      Alas!   united  Italy, 


P^STUM  199 

thinking  she  can  dispense  with  such  humble  folk, 
has  turned  them  out  of  their  home  of  seven  cen- 
turies, and  converted  it  into  an  hotel  for  the 
traveller.  Down  its  corridors  immense  congrega- 
tions of  friars,  still  disputing  with  us  as  intruders, 
seem  to  pass.  In  the  refectory,  where  now  the 
unconscious  tourist  dines  cheerfully,  they  in  old 
times  ate  in  silence,  listening  to  the  words  of 
St  Francis  and  St  Augustine  or  Jesus  of  Nazareth. 
It  is  a  strange  fate  that  has  befallen,  yet  by 
no  means  a  peculiar  one :  many  are  the  monasteries 
in  Italy  that  have  been  put  to  far  baser  uses,  of 
which  let  Perugia  and  Assisi  speak,  than  that  of 
an  hotel  for  the  foreigner. 

Of  Paestum  there  is  but  little  to  be  said.  He 
who  has  once  set  eyes  upon  those  majestic  temples, 
splendid  in  their  ruin  and  their  desolation,  is 
bereft  of  words  concerning  them  to  praise  them. 
No  grander  sight  is  to  be  found  in  this  our  world. 
In  the  immense  silence  they  seem  like  the  very 
spirits  of  their  gods  scorning  us  and  our  little 
day,  secure  in  their  nobility.  On  no  account,  how- 
ever great  the  pains,  must  the  traveller  miss  this 
vision  of  sadness  and  splendour.  In  contemplating 
these  desolate  ruins  Swinburne's  words  are  often 
in  the  mind  : — 

"  I  have  lived  long  enough,  having  found  one  thing — that  love 
hath  an  end." 

At  Salerno  there  is  but  little  either  to  do  or 
to    see.     It   is  of  dull   places   the   dullest,    yet  it  is 


200  NAPLES 

not  without  its  own  beauty,  in  spite  of  guide- 
books. The  cathedral,  in  defiance  of  its  matchless 
acrobatics  in  style,  has  a  kind  of  loveliness,  and, 
as  I  have  said,  and  the  guide  -  books  before  me, 
it  is  an  excellent  centre  from  which  to  visit  Paes- 
tum  and  Amalfi. 

There  remains  Pompeii.  Imagine  to  yourself 
Bournemouth,  or  even  Margate,  buried,  in  all  the 
splendour  of  our  civilisation,  under  the  ashes  of  a 
volcano.  Forget  the  immense  catastrophe  if  you 
will,  and  think  only  of  the  result.  Nearly  two 
thousand  years  hence  certain  men  and  governments 
excavate  Margate  (or  it  may  be  Bournemouth)  from 
her  ashes.  Well,  will  they  wonder,  think  you  ? 
Will  they  find  priceless  bronzes  and  statues  and 
pictures  lovely  with  vermilion  and  gold,  the  luxuries 
of  a  great  civilisation  that  reached  even  to  such 
a  place  as  Margate,  not  without  splendour  and 
beauty?  I  think  not.  Yet  Pompeii  was  even  less 
than  Margate.  No  great  or  rich  men  lived  there; 
it  was  not  Baise  nor  Cumae,  nor  Caesar's  palace 
on  Capri.  A  mere  little  provincial  town  by  the 
sea-side ;  yet  what  treasures  has  she  not  kept  safe 
for  us  through  all  the  hurly-burly  of  the  Christian 
years  of  war  and  horror!  So  far  had  their  civil- 
isation fulfilled  its  purpose,  so  much  the  people 
loved  beauty.  Perhaps  we  have  achieved  another 
victory.1 

1  Mr  Neville  Rolfe  has  written  a  delightful  and  masterly  book  on 
Pompeii  which  the  traveller  should  possess. 


THE   AQUARIUM  201 

Such,  reader,  is  your  prospect  around  Naples. 
Go,  see,  think  your  own  thoughts,  and  be  not  led 
by  the  nose  by  the  guide,  either  the  German  or 
another ;  consult  him  if  you  will,  but  I  pray  you 
think  for  yourself.  And  so  back  to  Naples;  and 
it  may  well  be  that  I  have  left  the  most  wonder- 
ful sight  in  that  noisy  city  to  the  last.  I  mean 
the  Aquarium.  The  Aquarium,  say  you  ?  Yes, 
the  Aquarium.  There  is  nothing  like  it  in  the 
world.  Fishes  —  but  fishes !  Go,  see  them  under 
the  sea.  Devil-fish  such  as  Victor  Hugo  wrote 
of;  fish  that  are  half  vegetable,  half  fish.  Beauti- 
ful fishes,  ugly  fishes,  fishes  that  make  you  tremble, 
and  fishes  that  make  you  smile.  There  is  nothing 
like  the  Aquarium  on  a  wet  day ;  one's  only  re- 
gret is  that  on  leaving  Naples  one  has  to  leave 
it  behind.  I  pray  you  on  no  account  to  miss  the 
Aquarium  from  your  programme. 


X. 


AT    PERUGIA. 

PERUGIA  is  the  queen  of  all  hill  cities.  She 
does  not  belie  the  richness  of  her  name. 
Within  her  palaces  is  some  of  the  softest  and  sweet- 
est work  of  Perugino,  within  her  Cathedral  one  of 
the  most  lovely  shrines  of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  She 
sits  enthroned  upon  the  Apennine,  and  her  prospect 
is  of  a  thousand  hills  and  valleys.  At  her  feet  St 
Francis  lived  and  sang  along  the  byways,  and  died 
while  the  crested  larks  sang  his  requiem.  Nor  has 
she  been  slow  to  defend  her  liberty  and  her  beauty. 
In  her  history  live  some  of  the  fiercest  spirits  of  the 
world;  not  seldom  have  her  streets  been  red  with 
blood,  not  easily  have  the  tyrants  conquered  her. 
From  Fonte  Braccio  and  the  Baglioni  to  the  latest 
Popes,  her  lovers  have  in  the  end  striven  to  take  her 
life,  lest  she  should  slay  them.  So  far  as  she  could 
see  within  that  noble  and  magnificent  horizon  there 
was  none  like  her,  none.  Equal  in  glory  with  her 
only  rivals — the  sun,  the  moon,  and  the  hills — she 
stands  even  to-day,  fierce  and  impregnable  in  a  world 


QUEEN    OF   HILL   CITIES  203 

of  which  she  is  scornful.  A  mile  away  the  levelling 
railway  passes  unheeded,  perhaps  a  little  fearful  of 
her  aspect.  Nor  has  she  made  overtures  to  progress ; 
it  is  only  painfully  and  after  much  labour  that  one 
comes  to  her  from  the  less  proud  and  less  isolated 
cities. 

And  to-day  is  she  not  more  terrible — more  to  be 
pitied  in  her  pride  and  her  ruin  than  ever  before  ? 
Down  the  long  corridors  of  her  monasteries  an  alien 
army  tramps.  Her  countenance  is  haggard  and 
ruinous,  her  soul  shattered  under  the  hoofs  of  the 
modern  satyr  she  pretends  not  to  see.  She  greets 
the  sunrise  now  perhaps  as  something  less  than  an 
equal,  she  is  sometimes  ashamed  under  the  soft  sky. 
For  in  spite  of  all  her  pride  and  glory  and  spirit 
and  rage,  she  too  in  her  soul,  that,  ah  !  once  upon  a 
time,  was  free,  loved  her  God,  and  did  not  disdain  to 
pray  to  her  beautiful  and  simple  Madonnina,  nor  to 
tell  all  Italy  with  a  sweetness  and  a  love  beyond 
any  other  the  story  of  the  life  and  death  of  Jesus 
Christ. 

I  think,  indeed,  as  to-day  she  looks  over  her  hills, 
and  some  thought  comes  to  her  perhaps  on  the  shriek 
of  the  engine's  whistle  of  that  mighty  and  material 
world  that  never  thinks  of  her  for  a  moment,  that 
disregards  her  utterly,  into  whose  counsels  she  is  too 
old  and  too  feeble  to  enter,  that  the  ruin  of  her  face, 
that  was  once  so  noble,  is  rather  wrought  out  from 
within  than  the  work  of  those  who  possessed  her, 
not  with  love,  but  with  lust  and  fury.     Yet  in  the 


204  PERUGIA 

night,  under  a  few  stars,  I  have  surprised  something 
of  the  old  expression  upon  her  face :  thoughts  of 
the  old  days  of  pride  and  liberty  and  beauty  and 
vision,  that  have  risen  to  her  head  with  the  mist  from 
the  valleys — that  come  to  her  sleeping,  as  dreams. 
It  was  then  for  a  moment  I  seemed  to  remember  all 
her  old  renown,  to  be  astonished  at  her  splendour, 
and  to  understand  her  tragedy.  The  implacable 
night,  on  whose  breast  shone  a  few  splendid  jewels, 
had  burned  up  the  trumpery  crimes  of  the  last  cen- 
tury, and  there  remained  the  old  ineradicable  beauty 
of  body  and  spirit.  I  watched  her  through  the  night, 
the  memories  chasing  one  another  across  her  sleeping 
bastions,  and  with  the  dawn  I  again  beheld  her  ruin 
and  her  despair,  the  reality  of  her  degradation. 

•  ••••••• 

It  is  to  Fiorenzo  di  Lorenzo,  whose  pictures  lend  a 
spirit  of  antique  cheerfulness  to  the  Pinacoteca  be- 
yond anything  of  the  sort  to  be  found  in  the  some- 
what cloying  sweetness  of  Perugino,  that  I  would 
suggest  the  traveller  should  turn  his  attention.  For 
Fiorenzo  appears,  almost  beyond  his  master  Gozzoli 
or  Bonfigli,  to  have  caught  in  his  canvasses  the  Spirit 
of  the  fifteenth  century,  not  so  much  in  a  new  man- 
ner, as  objectively,  seen  as  though  she  were  a  stranger 
in  Florence  or  even  Perugia  into  whose  fierce  and 
rugged  streets  she  trips  a  vision  of  new  beauty.  In 
that  series  of  eight  pictures  of  scenes  in  the  life  of 
San  Bernardino  of  Siena,  a  new  elegance  transforming 
the  old  religion,  almost  certainly  aiding  it  profoundly 


FIORENZO    DI    LORENZO  205 

in  its  encounter  with  the  new  spirit,  seems  to 
have  come  into  the  Piazza  and  the  streets  of  the 
old  warrior  city  —  something  infinitely  more  subtle 
and  perhaps  more  sincere  than  the  sentiment  of 
Perugino. 

There  is  but  little  to  tell  of  Fiorenzo  himself. 
Born  between  1440  and  1445,  he  appears  to  have 
lived  to  a  great  age,  and  whether  he  was  the  pupil 
of  Benozzo  Gozzoli  or  of  Bonfigli,  whose  noble  work 
hangs  beside  his  to-day,  or  of  both,  he  was  as  it  were 
the  realist  of  a  very  fortunate  age — altogether  de- 
lightful at  anyrate  for  us  who  are  only  entirely  satis- 
fied by  a  man  like  Perugino  in  his  forerunners  or  his 
pupils.  "  Fiorenzo's  work  is  in  painting  not  unlike 
Crashaw's  work  in  poetry,  doubtless  a  mirror  of 
the  time — elegant,  charming,  and  profoundly  sincere. 
His  young  men,  slender  and  lovely,  magnificently 
dressed,  with  a  dainty  fastidiousness  and  sumptuous 
elegance,  gather  together  or  swagger  across  his  can- 
vasses with  all  the  sweetness,  the  vanity,  the  confidence 
of  ideal  youth.  It  is  always  necessary  to  remind  us 
that  they  are  but  the  attendants  of  a  great  Saint  who 
is  busied  with  a  miracle.  What  are  miracles  to 
them  or  to  us !  We  care  for  them  for  themselves, 
and  are  willing  to  forget  San  Bernardino.  In  one 
picture  of  this  series  of  events  in  the  life  of  the 
saint,  in  which  a  hound  gazes  out  of  the  picture, 
there  are  two  youths  who,  even  in  their  obvious  sur- 
prise and  satisfaction  at  the  miracle  they  are  watch- 
ing, never  forget  the  world  and  their  joy  of  it  for  a 


206  PERUGIA 

moment, — they  are  but  typical  of  the  painter's  work. 
In  the  same  picture  is  a  figure  of  a  kneeling  woman, 
perhaps  the  wife  or  mistress  of  the  injured  man,  in 
whom  we  see,  perhaps,  some  reminiscence  of  the 
Magdalen  before  the  cross  in  many  an  early  picture 
by  Fra  Angelico  or  another.  The  curious  rocks 
towering  above  their  own  natural  arches  show  us 
for  a  moment  a  vision  of  the  far  later  dreams  in 
landscape  of  Lionardo,  in  their  curious  shapes,  their 
stalactites,  their  mysterious  beauty.  One  is  aston- 
ished to  find  so  curious  an  arbour  just  outside  a 
palace — or  a  monastery,  is  it  ? — that  rises  magnificent 
with  marble  and  brick  to  the  left  of  the  picture.  Are 
these  paintings  really  concerned  with  the  miracles  of 
San  Bernardino  of  Siena  or  with  the  most  magnif- 
icent gentlemen  Oddi  and  Baglioni  of  Perugia  ? 
How  indifferent  are  these  youths  to  the  work  of 
the  good  saint !  And  so  this  effort  of  flattery  or 
realism,  softened  and  made  precious  by  the  years, 
comes  to  us  to-day  a  very  vision  of  ourselves  perhaps 
as  we  were  three  hundred  years  ago.  In  spite  of  the 
beauty  of  Fiorenzo's  Adoration  of  the  Shepherds, 
where  Christ  lies  among  His  brethren  the  Flowers, 
whilst  in  the  distance  shepherds  still  watch  their 
flocks,  angels  still  sing  in  heaven,  as  indeed  it  befell, 
it  is  to  these  pictures  of  the  fifteenth  century  in  its 
dainty  vanity  and  proud  elegance  we  return,  charmed 
in  a  new  way  by  the  reality,  the  sincerity  of  the 
artist,  and  even  in  his  religious  pictures  he  reminds 
us  of  such  homely,  real,  natural  things  as  flowers.    In 


IN    SAN    LORENZO  207 

his  Adoration  one  is  charmed  not  so  much  by  the 
shepherds  themselves,  so  infinitely  less  real  to  us  than 
in  Murillo's  picture  in  the  Vatican,  as  by  the  flowers, 
that  exquisite  fluffy  head  of  dandelion  run  to  seed, 
the  little  wild  hyacinths  and  bluebells — the  vision  of 
the  unheeding  world  in  the  distance.  In  all  Perugia 
there  is  nothing  more  delightful  than  his  pictures 
of  a  world  that  has  forgotten  for  a  moment  that  it 
is  only  reprieved  from  death. 

Turning  from  a  world  that  Fiorenzo  seems  to  have 
found  so  proud,  so  pleasant,  and  so  confident,  it  is 
in  the  Cathedral  that  the  counterpart,  the  reverse  of 
his  vision  maybe  seen.  •'  War  and  indifference  have 
made  San  Lorenzo  almost  human  in  aspect.  " 

It  is  here,  in  the  warmth  and  security  that  always 
in  some  way  seem  absent  from  the  city  itself, 
enshrined  in  the  Cappella  del  Santo  Anello,  that 
Perugia  has  placed  her  most  precious  possession,  the 
wedding  ring  of  the  Blessed  Virgin.  France  still 
holds  Perugia's  picture  of  the  Sposalizio,  which 
Napoleon  stole  —  it  is  but  a  copy  we  see  in  its 
place  ;  a  kind  of  divine  reprisal,  one  may  believe, 
for  Messer  Winterio  di  Magonza  "  piously  stole  "  the 
wedding  ring  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  from  Chiusi 
towards  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century.  One  is 
privileged  to  behold  so  magnificent  a  relic  in  the 
blessed  month  of  May  from  daylight  to  nightfall. 
The  shrine,  where  in  its  glorious  casket  of  silver 
the  holy  ring  reposes,  is  lighted  by  innumerable 
candles,  and  suddenly,  in  the  dazzling  soft  light  one 


2o8  PERUGIA 

sees  a  shimmer  of  little  conflicting  colours  aglow,  a 
burning  point  of  fire.  The  ring  is  of  some  strange 
cornelian  or  agate,  and  semi-transparent  and  pale 
as  a  flame.  Some  have  described  it  as  white,  some 
as  blue,  some  as  yellow,  some  as  red.  Goldoni 
in  his  Memoirs  says  it  depends  upon  the  heart  of 
him  who  approaches  it  what  colour  it  takes. 

There  is  also  the  famous  picture  of  Madonna  delle 
Grazie  to  cheer  the  traveller.  No  sweeter  vision  of 
Our  Lady  will  he  ever  see,  till  in  heaven  he  shall 
perhaps  behold  her  as  she  is.  With  hands  raised 
she  seems  to  deprecate  our  prayers  and  to  bless  us. 
Innumerable  trifles,  silver  hearts,  and  invisible  thank- 
fulness surround  the  altar  of  a  "  miraculous"  picture, 
in  which  even  the  stern  Protestant  cannot  but  find 
at  least  a  miracle  of  beauty.  Perugino,  it  is  said, 
sought  his  inspiration  here,  and  a  hundred  galleries 
witness  that  he  was  heard  indeed.  It  was  to  her  one 
day  as  I  knelt  that  I  heard  an  old  priest,  to  whom, 
after  all,  the  service  of  the  sanctuary,  seeing  that  he 
was  very  old,  must  perhaps  have  lost  some  of  its 
enchantment,  whisper,  "  Ecce  ancilla  Domini." 

It  is  delightful  to  spend  many  weeks  of  summer 
in  Perugia.  Miss  Margaret  Symonds  and  Miss  Janet 
Duff  have  made  for  the  leisured  traveller,  at  least,  a 
delightful  companion  in  *  The  Story  of  Perugia,' 
published  by  Messrs  Dent  in  their  "  Medieval  Towns 
Series."  Mr  J.  A.  Symonds  in  his  'Sketches  in 
Italy,'  gives  us  a  wonderful  picture  of  Perugia  in 
the  grip  of  the  Baglioni.     It  is  with  such  writers  one 


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PERUGIA  209 

desires  to  pass  unending  days  in  the  old  streets  and 
churches,  and  on  the  everlasting  hills.  Regardless 
of  modernity,  since  to  the  seeing  eye  there  is  but 
the  thin  haze  of  scarce  two  hundred  thousand  sunsets 
between  our  poor  day  and  theirs. 


o 


XI. 


AT   ASSISI. 

IN  thinking  of  St  Francis,  and  it  is  the  inevitable 
joy  of  the  traveller  to  be  able  at  Assisi  to 
think  of  nothing  else,  one  is  compelled  as  with  no 
other  saint  to  think  of  him  as  a  human  being, 
almost  perfect  in  many  ways,  of  which  cheerfulness 
is  not  the  least,  but  always  very  human  beside  the 
figures  of  other  it  may  be  less  perfect  but  more  terrible 
saints.  M.  Paul  Sabatier,  a  French  Protestant,  has 
devoted  himself  during  many  years  to  the  study  of 
the  life  of  the  little  poor  man  of  Assisi,  gradually 
making  clear  for  us  those  things  which  were  hidden 
and  obscure,  throwing  a  new  light  on  a  life  of 
peculiar  perfection,  so  that  he  seems  to  suggest 
that  under  all  the  beauty  and  sweetness  that  have 
led  men  to  think  of  him  as  the  imitation  of  Christ, 
wholly  compelled  and  transformed  by  it,  there  lies 
the  revolutionary,  the  progressive  reformer,  intent 
on  his  own  freedom  of  spirit  and  the  liberty  of  the 
hearts  of  men.  And  however  we  may  view  so  new  a 
reading  of  the  parable  of  St  Francis's  life,  we  are 


ST   FRANCIS  211 

from  the  first  grateful  for  the  exquisite  and  loving 
care  that  M.  Sabatier,  profound  and  learned,  yet 
never  without  a  transforming  and  illuminating  love, 
has  bestowed  upon  this  saint  of  an  alien  religion. 

But  for  the  traveller,  who  without  undue  haste 
would  see  Assisi  and  learn  something  of  a  life  that 
men  have  counted  so  precious,  there  is  no  book  so 
perfect  as  *  The  Little  Flowers,'  the  '  Fioretti,'  of 
St  Francis  himself. 

Born  at  Assisi  in  1182,  the  son  of  wealthy  parents, 
St  Francis  was  named  Giovanni  at  the  font,  and  it 
was  only  on  his  father's  return  from  a  journey, 
possibly  to  Lyons  to  sell  cloth  or  silk,  that  he  was 
renamed  by  him  "  II  Francesco,"  the  little  French- 
man. Educated  by  his  father,  not  only  as  became 
a  merchant  but  to  some  extent  as  became  a  fine 
gentleman,  Francis  appears  first  to  have  turned 
his  thoughts  towards  heaven  from  a  world  that  he 
ever  found  gay,  after  a  long  illness.  It  is  from  this 
time  that  we  find  him  with  "  no  relish  but  for  solitude 
and  prayer."  And  it  was  one  day  in  St  Damian's 
Church,  without  the  walls  of  Assisi,  that  kneeling 
before  a  crucifix  he  hears  a  voice,  that  voice  which 
creeps  into  the  lives  of  all  the  saints  as  that  mighty 
and  marvellous  river  winds  through  the  pictures  of 
Lionardo,  saying  thrice  over,  "  Francis,  go  and  repair 
my  house  which  thou  seest  falling  "  ;  for  even  then  the 
church  was  very  old  and  frail,  haunted  by  innumer- 
able unavailing  prayers  and  unworthy  petitions.  And 
coming   home    he,    without    thought    of    evil,    over- 


212  ASSISI 

whelmed  by  that  implacable  voice,  "took  a  horse- 
load  of  cloth  out  of  his  father's  warehouse  and  sold 
it,  together  with  the  horse,"  at  Foligno,  a  town  some 
twelve  miles  from  Assisi.  So  he  came  back  to  St 
Damian's  Church  with  the  money,  which  he  offered 
to  the  priest  who,  however,  refused  it,  laying  it  on 
the  window-sill ;  but  the  priest,  though  old  and  poor, 
seems  to  have  seen  something  divine  in  the  young 
man  after  all,  for  he  permitted  him  to  stay  with  him 
and  loved  him.  But  Peter  Bernardon,  the  father  of 
Francis,  came  to  St  Damian's  Church  angry  because 
of  the  loss  of  his  cloth  and  of  his  horse,  but  finding 
the  money  laid  on  the  widow-sill  he  grew  calmer, 
though  he  did  not  forbear  to  denounce  his  son  as  a 
madman,  in  which  the  townspeople  appear  to  have 
agreed  with  him.  And  eventually  Francis  having 
been  seen  in  the  streets  in  rags,  Peter  Bernardon 
took  him  home  and  locked  him  up,  but  his  mother 
set  him  free  when  his  father  was  gone.  Thus  the 
story  of  St  Francis  begins  with  a  not  unusual  touch 
of  everyday  humour,  none  the  less  charming  on  that 
account,  since  the  saints,  as  a  rule,  early  put  humour 
away  from  them,  with  life. 

St  Francis,  freed  by  the  love  of  his  mother,  went 
to  St  Damian's,  where,  after  a  time,  his  father 
followed  him  and  demanded  that  either  he  should 
return  home  or  forego  his  inheritance.  Before  the 
Bishop,  who,  as  well  may  be,  was  astonished  no 
less  at  the  severity  of  the  father  than  at  the  eager- 
ness of  the  son  for  poverty,   and  appears  therefore 


ST   FRANCIS  213 

to  have  hesitated,  St  Francis,  impatient  of  delay, 
"  stripped  himself  of  his  clothes  and  gave  them  to 
his  father,  saying  cheerfully  and  meekly,  '  Hitherto 
I  have  called  you  father  on  earth,  but  now  I  say 
with  more  confidence  Paternoster  qui  es  in  ccelis,  in 
whom  I  place  all  my  hope  and  treasure.' "  The 
good  Bishop,  somewhat  overcome  by  the  remarkable 
actions  and  fervour  of  the  youth,  and  for  the  sake 
of  Lady  Modesty,  gave  Francis  his  cloak  for  the 
moment,  and  later  procured  that  of  his  servant  for 
him,  which  Francis  signed  in  chalk  with  the  Holy 
Cross  and  cheerfully  accepted  as  his  first  alms. 
Thus  St  Francis  renounced  the  world  and  set  out 
for  heaven,  being  about  twenty-five  years  old. 

St  Francis  now  began  to  beg  money  to  repair  St 
Damian's,  and  having  collected  a  little,  he  with  his 
own  hands  helped  to  carry  the  stones,  and  so  repaired 
the  church.  He  then  went  to  La  Porziuncula,  a  little 
chapel  belonging  to  the  Benedictines  of  Subiaco,  at 
that  time  nearly  a  mile  from  Assisi,  but  now  to  be 
found  within  Santa  Maria  degli  Angeli,  that  has  been 
built  around  it.  When  St  Francis  came  to  it  on  that 
morning  in  1207  he  found  it  in  an  utterly  ruinous 
condition,  almost  unfit  either  for  service  or  dwelling. 
He  immediately  set  himself  to  repair  it,  which  he  did 
before  the  year  was  out.  To-day  over  the  magnifi- 
cent church  of  Santa  Maria  degli  Angeli,  built  by 
Vignola,  and  begun  in  1569,  to  be  restored  after  an 
earthquake  by  Poletti  in  1832,  is  the  vision  of  St 
Francis  when  he  heard  that  voice  speak  for  the  second 


214  ASSISI 

time,  "  Take  nothing  for  your  journey,  neither  staves 
nor  scrip,  neither  bread,  neither  money ;  neither  have 
two  coats  apiece."  And  it  was  this  one  coat,  girt 
with  a  rough  cord,  that  in  the  next  year,  1208,  he 
gave  to  his  disciples  as  their  habit,  when  first  Ber- 
nard, a  rich  tradesman  of  Assisi,  and  then  Peter,  a 
canon  of  the  Cathedral  of  Assisi,  and  then  Brother 
Giles,  "  a  person  of  great  simplicity  and  virtue," 
joined  him  as  his  brethren  in  his  cell  at  Porziuncula. 
So  he  went  to  Rome  in  1209,  and  "obtained  a 
verbal  approbation  of  his  Order "  from  Innocent 
III.  It  seems  to  have  been  a  vision  the  Pope  had 
of  St  Francis  propping  up  the  Lateran  Church,  which 
was  about  to  fall,  that  convinced  him  of  the  necessity 
of  approving  this  new  little  Order  of  perfection.  It  is, 
however,  curious  that  the  same  story  is  told  of  St 
Dominic,  of  whom  the  Pope  had  a  similar  vision 
scarcely  five  years  later,  that  convinced  him  of  the 
necessity  for  that  approbation  also.  St  Francis  had 
now  twelve  disciples.  His  Rule  was  one  of  great  sim- 
plicity: it  included  obedience,  chastity,  and  poverty, 
and  the  greatest  of  these  was,  I  think,  Lady  Poverty. 
Not  only  individually  must  the  Franciscans  hold  no 
possessions,  but  in  common  also  it  was  unlawful  for 
them  to  possess  anything  whatever.  St  Dominic,  in 
an  encounter  with  St  Francis,  lays  especial  stress  on 
this  point.  For  having  desired  to  take  thought  for 
the  morrow,  which  St  Francis  forbade,  and  having  at 
last  seen,  as  it  were,  by  a  miracle  that  St  Francis  was 
right,  "  coming  before  him,  he  knelt  down  and  humbly 


ST   FRANCIS  215 

told  his  fault,  and  added :  '  Of  a  truth  God  hath 
especial  care  of  these  holy  poor  little  ones,  and  I 
knew  it  not ;  and  from  now  henceforth  I  promise  to 
observe  the  Holy  Gospel  poverty,  and  in  the  name  of 
God  I  curse  all  the  brothers  of  my  Order  who  in  the 
said  Order  shall  presume  to  hold  property.' " 

To  understand  the  spirit  of  this  man, — so  like  to 
Christ  as  to  have  seemed  almost  a  re-incarnation  of 
Him,  so  that  legend  tells  us  he  was  born  in  a  stable, 
as  was  our  Lord,  and  other  things  too  they  had  in 
common, — is  to  possess  oneself  of  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  things  in  the  world.  His  body,  we  are  told, 
he  called  brother  Ass,  because  it  must  bear  great 
burdens  and  be  beaten,  and  rest  but  of  necessity. 
Everything,  and  every  sort  of  animal  in  the  world 
were  to  him  brethren  or  sisters.  Thus  the  sun,  the 
moon,  and  the  stars,  the  fishes,  the  birds,  and  the 
flowers,  are,  as  it  were,  only  perhaps  more  attentive 
members  than  ourselves  of  the  family  of  God.  A 
profound  humanist  in  the  best  sense  of  that  term,  he 
in  that  rough  and  rude  age  had  in  more  than  one  way, 
as  it  were,  anticipated  the  Renaissance.  "  Know, 
dear  brother,"  says  he  to  his  companion,  "that  cour- 
tesy is  one  of  the  qualities  of  God  Himself,  who  of 
His  courtesy  giveth  His  sun  and  His  rain  to  the  just 
and  the  unjust:  and  courtesy  is  the  sister  of  charity, 
the  which  quencheth  hate  and  keepeth  love  alive." 

In  March  1212  St  Francis  met  Clare,  the  daughter 
of  Phavorino  Sciffo,  a  knight  of  noble  family,  she 
having    run    from   home   to    Porziuncula,    where   St 


216  ASSISI 

Francis  dwelt  with  his  brothers.  He  met  her  at  the 
door  of  the  church  of  St  Mary,  and  together  with  his 
brethren  began  to  sing  "  Veni  Creator."  Before  the 
high  altar  St  Francis  gave  her  the  penitential  habit, 
and  there  being  as  yet  no  Franciscan  nunnery,  he 
sent  her  to  the  "  Benedictine  nunnery  of  St  Paul. 
The  Poor  Clares  date  from  this  epoch  the  foundation 
of  their  Order."  In  1215  St  Francis  and  St  Dominic 
met  in  Rome  and  loved  one  another.  In  1219  was 
held  at  La  Porziuncula  the  great  chapter  "  called  of 
Matts,"  because  being  very  numerous  it  was  impos- 
sible to  find  a  building  in  which  it  might  assemble, 
so  tents  and  booths  were  set  up  in  the  fields.  So 
great  had  the  order  grown  that  it  is  said  more  than 
5000  friars  came  to  this  general  chapter. 

St  Clare,  who  is  in  many  ways  the  most  important 
figure  in  the  order  next  to  St  Francis,  was  the  sister 
of  St  Damian.  One  invariably  pictures  her,  poor 
little  saint  as  she  is,  on  her  knees  at  the  feet  of  St 
Francis.  Many  lovely  idylls  are  woven  between 
them  in  the  pages  of  the  '  Fioretti,'  as  "  How  St 
Clare,  being  sick,  was  miraculously  carried  on  the 
night  of  Christmas  Eve  to  the  church  of  St  Francis 
and  there  heard  the  Office,"  and  "  How  St  Clare  ate 
with  St  Francis  and  the  brothers  his  companions  in 
St  Mary  of  the  Angels,"  which  runs  as  follows,  as 
translated  by  Mr  T   W.  Taylor  • — 

Whereas  St  Francis  was  at  Assisi  oftentimes,  he  visited  St 
Clare  and  gave  her  holy  admonishments.     And  she  having 


ST   FRANCIS  217 

exceeding  great  desire  once  to  break  bread  with  him,  often- 
times besought  him  thereto,  but  he  was  never  willing  to  grant 
her  this  consolation ;  wherefore  his  companions,  beholding 
the  desire  of  St  Clare,  said  unto  St  Francis  :  "  Father,  it 
doth  appear  to  us  that  this  severity  accordeth  not  with 
heavenly  charity  :  since  thou  givest  not  ear  unto  Sister  Clare, 
a  virgin  so  saintly,  so  beloved  of  God,  in  so  slight  a  matter 
as  breaking  bread  with  thee,  and,  above  all,  bearing  in  mind 
that  she,  through  thy  preaching,  abandoned  the  riches  and 
pomps  of  the  world.  And  of  a  truth  had  she  asked  of  thee 
a  greater  boon  than  this,  thou  oughtest  so  to  do  unto  thy 
spiritual  plant."  .  .  .  Then  spoke  St  Francis :  "Since  it 
seems  good  to  you,  it  seems  so,  likewise,  unto  me.  But 
that  she  may  be  the  more  consoled,  I  will  that  this  breaking 
of  bread  take  place  in  St  Mary  of  the  Angels ;  for  she  has 
been  so  long  shut  up  in  St  Damian  that  it  will  rejoice  her  to 
see  again  the  house  of  St  Mary's,  where  her  hair  was  shorn 
away  and  she  became  the  bride  of  Jesus  Christ ;  there  let  us 
eat  together  in  the  name  of  God."  When  came  the  day 
ordained  by  him,  St  Clare  with  one  companion  passed  forth 
from  out  the  convent,  and  with  the  companions  of  St  Francis 
to  bear  her  company,  came  unto  St  Mary  of  the  Angels  and 
devoutly  saluted  the  Virgin  Mary  before  her  altar,  where  she 
had  been  shorn  and  veiled ;  so  they  conducted  her  to  see 
the  House  until  such  time  as  the  hour  for  breaking  bread 
was  come.  And  in  the  meantime  St  Francis  let  make  ready 
the  table  on  the  bare  ground  as  he  was  wont  to  do.  And  the 
hour  of  breaking  bread  being  come,  they  set  themselves 
down  together,  St  Francis  and  St  Clare,  and  one  of  the  com- 
panions of  St  Francis  with  the  companion  of  St  Clare,  and 
all  the  other  companions  took  each  his  place  at  the  table 
with  all  humility.  And  at  the  first  dish  St  Francis  began  to 
speak  of  God  so  sweetly,  so  sublimely,  and  so  wondrously 


218  ASSISI 

that  the  fulness  of  the  divine  grace  came  down  on  them, 
and  they  were  all  rapt  in  God.  And  as  they  were  thus  rapt, 
with  eyes  and  hands  uplifted  to  heaven,  the  folk  of  Assisi 
and  Bettona  and  the  country  round  saw  that  St  Mary  of  the 
Angels  and  all  the  House  and  the  wood  that  was  just  hard 
by  the  House  was  burning  brightly,  and  it  seemed  as  it  were 
a  great  fire  that  filled  the  Church  and  the  House  and  the 
whole  wood  together :  for  the  which  cause  the  folk  of  Assisi  ran 
thither  in  great  haste  for  to  quench  the  flames,  believing  of  a 
truth  that  the  whole  place  was  all  on  fire.  But  coming  close 
up  to  the  House  and  finding  no  fire  at  all,  they  entered 
within  and  found  St  Francis  and  St  Clare. 

"  Never  was  wedding  banquet,"  says  Gabriele 
d'Annunzio  of  this  passage — "Never  was  wedding 
banquet  lit  up  by  more  radiant  torches  of  love."  So 
St  Clare  loved  St  Francis,  so  St  Francis  loved  St 
Clare. 

It  was  about  the  time  of  the  Feast  of  the  Exaltation 
of  the  Cross  in  September  1224  that  St  Francis  made 
his  retreat  on  Monte  Alvernia,  and  there  received  the 
stigmata  from  our  Lord  Jesus,  as  may  be  learned  from 
many  a  pleasant  fresco  up  and  down  Italy. 

St  Francis,  says  the  anonymous  author  of  the 
'  Fioretti,'  being  forty-three  years  old  in  1224,  being 
inspired  of  God,  set  out  from  the  valley  of  Spoleto, 
where  Christ  spoke  of  love  to  Sant'  Angela  of  Foligno, 
for  to  go  into  Romagna.  But  Orlando  da  Chiusi  of 
Carentino,  having  heard  of  the  little  poor  man  of 
Assisi,  loved  him,  and  gave  him  at  this  time  Monte 
Alvernia,  not  far  from  Chiusi.  And  so  it  was  that 
St  Francis  came  to  make  his  retreat  there  before  the 


ST   FRANCIS  219 

Feast  of  the  Exaltation.  He  being  alone,  was  wont 
to  say  matins  with  Brother  Leo,  who,  in  order  to  see 
whether  or  no  St  Francis  wished  his  company  in 
prayer,  used  to  cry  out,  "Domine,  labia  mea  aperies!" 
— "  O  Lord,  open  Thou  my  lips,"  when  he  drew  near 
that  place  where  St  Francis  was.  But  on  this  morning 
St  Francis  made  him  no  answer,  and  contrary  to  St 
Francis's  desire,  but  with  the  very  best  of  intentions, 
dear  little  brother  Leo  crossed  the  bridge  over  the 
chasm,  which  you  may  see  to  this  day,  and  entered 
into  St  Francis's  cell.  There  he  found  Francis  in 
ecstasy,  saying,  "  Who  art  Thou,  O  most  sweet,  my 
God?  What  am  I,  most  vile  worm,  and  Thine 
unprofitable  servant  ? "  Again  and  again  Brother 
Leo  heard  him  repeat  these  words,  and  wondering 
thereat,  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  the  sky,  and  saw  there 
among  the  stars,  for  it  was  dark,  a  torch  of  flame 
very  beautiful  and  bright,  which,  coming  down  from 
the  sky,  rested  on  St  Francis's  head.  So  thinking 
himself  unworthy  to  behold  so  sweet  a  vision,  "  he 
softly  turned  away  for  to  go  to  his  cell  again.  And 
as  he  was  going  softly,  deeming  himself  unseen,  St 
Francis  was  aware  of  him  by  the  rustling  of  the 
leaves  under  his  feet."  Surely,  even  to  the  most 
doubtful,  that  sound  of  the  rustling  leaves  must  bring 
conviction.  And  St  Francis  explains  to  Brother  Leo 
all  that  this  might  mean. 

And  as  he  thus  continued  a  long  time  in  prayer,  he  came 
to  know  that  God  would  hear  him,  and  that  so  far  as  was 
possible  for  the  mere  creature,  so  far  would  it  be  granted 


220  ASSISI 

him  to  feel  the  things  aforesaid.  .  .  .  And  as  he  was  thus 
set  on  fire  in  his  contemplation  on  that  same  morn,  he  saw- 
descend  from  heaven  a  Seraph  with  six  wings  resplendent 
and  aflame,  and  as  with  swift  flight  the  Seraph  drew  nigh 
unto  St  Francis  so  that  he  could  discern  him,  he  clearly 
saw  that  he  bore  in  him  the  image  of  a  man  crucified ;  and 
his  wings  were  in  such  guise  displayed  that  two  wings  were 
spread  above  his  head,  and  two  were  spread  out  to  fly,  and 
other  two  covered  all  his  body.  Seeing  this  St  Francis 
was  sore  adread,  and  was  filled  at  once  with  joy  and  grief 
and  marvel.  He  felt  glad  at  the  gracious  look  of  Christ, 
who  appeared  to  him  so  lovingly,  and  gazed  on  him  so 
graciously ;  but  on  the  other  hand,  seeing  Him  crucified 
upon  the  cross,  he  felt  immeasurable  grief  for  pity's  sake. 
.  .  .  Then  the  whole  mount  of  Alvernia  appeared  as  though 
it  burned  with  bright  shining  flames  that  lit  up  all  the 
mountains  and  valleys  round  as  though  it  had  been  the  sun 
upon  the  earth ;  whereby  the  shepherds  that  were  keeping 
watch  in  these  parts,  seeing  the  mountains  aflame,  and  so 
great  a  light  around,  had  exceeding  great  fear,  according  as 
they  afterwards  told  unto  the  brothers,  declaring  that  this 
flame  rested  upon  the  mount  of  Alvernia  for  the  space  of 
an  hour  and  more.  In  like  manner  at  the  bright  shining  of 
this  light,  which  through  the  windows  lit  up  the  hostels  of 
the  country  round,  certain  muleteers  that  were  going  into 
Romagna  arose,  believing  that  the  day  had  dawned,  and 
saddled  and  laded  their  beasts ;  and  going  on  their  way, 
they  saw  the  said  light  die  out  and  the  material  sun  arise. 
In  the  seraphic  vision  Christ,  the  which  appeared  to  him, 
spake  to  St  Francis  certain  high  and  secret  things,  the  which 
St  Francis  in  his  lifetime  desired  not  to  reveal  to  any  man ; 
but  after  his  life  was  done  he  did  reveal  them  as  is  set  forth 
below ;  and  the   words  were   these  :   "  Knowest  thou,"  said 


ST   FRANCIS  221 

Christ,  "what  it  is  that  I  have  done  unto  thee?  I  have 
given  thee  the  Stigmata  that  are  the  signs  of  My  Passion, 
to  the  end  that  thou  mayest  be  My  standard-bearer.  And 
even  as  in  the  day  of  My  death  I  descended  into  hell  and 
brought  out  thence  all  souls  that  I  found  there  by  reason 
of  these  My  Stigmata :  even  so  do  I  grant  to  thee  that  every 
year  on  the  day  of  thy  death  thou  shalt  go  to  Purgatory,  and 
in  virtue  of  thy  Stigmata  shalt  bring  out  thence  all  the  souls 
of  thy  three  orders, — to  wit,  Minors,  Sisters,  Continents, — 
and  likewise  others  that  shall  have  had  a  great  devotion  for 
thee,  and  shalt  lead  them  unto  the  glory  of  Paradise,  to  the 
end  that  thou  mayest  be  confirmed  to  Me  in  death  as  thou 
art  in  life."  Then  this  marvellous  image  vanished  away, 
and  left  in  the  heart  of  St  Francis  a  burning  ardour  and 
flame  of  love  divine,  and  in  his  flesh  a  marvellous  image  and 
copy  of  the  Passion  of  Christ.  For  straightway  in  the  hands 
and  feet  of  St  Francis  began  to  appear  the  marks  of  the 
nails  in  such  wise  as  he  had  seen  them  in  the  body  of  Jesus 
Christ  the  crucified,  the  which  had  shown  Himself  to  him 
in  the  likeness  of  a  Seraph;  and  thus  his  hands  and  feet 
appeared  to  be  pierced  through  the  middle  with  nails,  and 
the  heads  of  them  were  in  the  palms  of  his  hands  and  the 
soles  of  his  feet  outside  the  flesh,  and  their  points  came 
out  in  the  back  of  his  hands  and  of  his  feet,  so  that  they 
seemed  bent  back  and  rivetted  in  such  a  fashion  that 
under  the  bend  and  rivetting  which  all  stood  out  above 
the  flesh  might  easily  be  put  a  finger  of  the  hand  as  a 
ring ;  and  the  heads  of  the  nails  were  round  and  black. 
Likewise  in  the  right  side  appeared  the  image  of  a  wound 
made  by  a  lance  unhealed,  and  red  and  bleeding,  the 
which  afterwards  oftentimes  dropped  blood  from  the  sacred 
breast  of  St  Francis,  and  stained  with  blood  his  tunic  and 
his  hose. 


222  ASSISI 

Thus  St  Francis  received  the  Stigmata.  Nor  is 
there  any  reason  to  doubt  the  writer  of  the  '  Fioretti.' 
That  he  actually  received  the  Stigmata  is  as  certain 
as  any  other  fact  of  history,  and  far  better  attested 
than  most. 

No  long  time  after  St  Francis  came  to  die — lame 
from  the  sacred  wounds  and  ill  and  weary  at  last. 
No  longer  as  in  youth  could  he  sing  those  French 
songs  in  the  byways  and  olive-gardens  around  Assisi. 
We  catch  a  glimpse  of  him  in  the  convent  garden 
of  St  Clare,  under  the  shade  of  the  olive-trees  in  a 
summer  of  drought,  when  St  Clare  drank  the  tears 
"  from  his  almost  blind  eyes  "  to  quench  her  thirst, 
not  only  for  water  but  for  St  Francis,  too.  It  is 
almost  the  last  we  ever  see  of  the  mystical  lovers. 
Of  his  love  of  all  natural  things  the  world  has  gladly 
taken  account,  for  it  is  there  that  he  is  so  different 
from  almost  all  other  saints.  He  died  one  day  of 
October  1226,  and  it  was  Saturday  ;  in  La  Porziuncula 
he  lay  listening  to  the  song  of  the  birds  he  loved, 
when  Christ  caught  him  away  from  our  earth,  which 
has  ever  been  the  poorer  since  we  spared  him. 

If  the  traveller,  who  by  some  fortunate  chance  is 
not  in  a  hurry,  will  spend  a  few  days  at  Assisi  in  the 
company  of  the  t  Fioretti,'  he  will  certainly  not  have 
journeyed  through  Italy  in  van.  No  sweeter  book 
was  ever  composed,  or  a  truer  either,  for  those  who 
have  ears  to  hear. 


XII. 

FLORENCE.— I. 

IT  is  well  for  the  traveller  to  remember  that  unless 
he  has  a  considerable  time  at  his  disposal  he 
cannot  see  everything  in  Florence.  He  will  do  well, 
therefore,  on  coming  to  a  city  that  is  really  full  of 
things  to  see,  to  map  out  his  days  carefully,  deter- 
mining to  see  only  a  little  every  day,  but  to  see  that 
little  carefully  at  his  leisure.  To  rush  from  the 
Duomo  to  Santa  Croce,  and  thence  to  the  Annun- 
ziata,  and  thence  to  San  Lorenzo,  and  thence  to 
Santa  Maria  Novella,  is  merely  to  succeed  in  con- 
fusing his  mind  so  that  he  will  never  be  able  to  sep- 
arate the  interior  of  one  from  another,  or  indeed 
the  exterior  either.  All  the  guide-books  I  ever  read 
ask  the  traveller  to  see  too  much,  and  in  their  usual 
seven  days  never  leave  him  a  minute  to  himself.  Yet 
it  is  just  the  time  he  has  to  himself  that  is  most 
precious.  For  it  is  then  that  he  will  gather  his  really 
enduring  impressions,  which,  indelible  though  they 
be,  are  delicate  beings  that  come  by  chance  and  are 
never  found  by  seeking.     It  would  be  well,  if,  having 


224  FLORENCE 

ten  days  at  his  disposal, — and  who  would  willingly 
spend  less  in  Florence  ? — he  devotes  the  afternoons 
to  casual  walks  or  drives,  to  dreams  and  what  not, 
and  the  morning  only  to  sight-seeing.  All  wet  days 
(of  which  I  wish  him  few)  may  very  well  be  spent  in 
the  galleries,  together  with  two  afternoons  towards 
the  end  of  the  visit.  I  give  below  a  small  time- 
table, allowing  two  mornings,  should  there  be  no  wet 
ones,  for  the  galleries. 

First  Morning,   Duomo  group  and   Museo  di  Santa  Maria 


del  Fiore. 

Second 

ii 

Santa  Maria  Novella. 

Third 

it 

San  Marco  and  Riccardi  Palace. 

Fourth 

ti 

Santa  Croce. 

Fifth 

it 

The  Bargello,  Annunziata, 

Sixth 

ii 

Or  San  Michele,  San  Lorenzo  Sacristy. 

Seventh 

ti 

Galleries. 

Eighth 

it 

Galleries. 

Ninth 

ii 

The  Carmine. 

Tenth 

it 

Piazza  della  Signoria,  Palazzo  Vecchio. 

Thus  in  ten  days,  of  which  the  afternoons  are  more 
or  less  free,  Florence  may  be  superficially  known. 
Two  afternoons  should  be  devoted  to  the  galleries  as 
well  as  the  two  mornings,  and  an  afternoon  each 
given  to  Fiesole,  San  Miniato,  and  The  Certosa. 
Even  under  this  rule  the  traveller,  unless  he  is  fairly 
well  acquainted  with  his  subjects,  will  suffer  inevitably 
from  mental  indigestion,  the  most  appalling  and 
common  ailment  to  be  met  with  among  travellers  in 
Italy. 


IX) 

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FLORENCE  225 

If  the  unfortunate  being  who  wanders  through  the 
churches,  his  eyes  glued  to  his  flaming  travellers'  bible, 
thinking  that  it  will  save  him,  were  to  spend  some 
of  the  time  he  must  give  to  railway  travelling  in  read- 
ing simple  and  easy  lives  of  St  Benedict,  St  Dominic, 
St  Francis,  St  Catherine,  and  St  Anthony,  he  would 
not  be  so  bewildered  before  these  seas  of  frescoed 
saints ;  and  then,  instead  of  reading  his  guide- 
book, he  would  read  the  frescoes  themselves,  as  they 
were  meant  to  be  read,  simply  like  a  book.  If,  as  is 
very  often  the  case,  the  traveller  never  heard  of  St 
Dominic  before  he  saw  his  name  in  Baedeker,  how 
can  he  hope  to  be  interested  in  his  life  or  his  miracles, 
or  anything  that  is  his,  written  in  flashes  of  genius 
on  the  walls  of  an  old  church  ?  And  if  all  he  knows 
of  St  Francis  is  that  he  was  poor,  though  that  is 
much,  still  it  will  scarcely  explain  satisfactorily  the 
story  of  the  Stigmata.  Unfortunately  for  the  English- 
man it  is  seldom  a  story  from  the  Bible  that  the 
painter  sets  himself  to  tell,  but  generally  the  life  of 
a  saint  perfectly  well  known  to  his  countrymen, 
about  whom  the  average  Englishman  knows  nothing 
at  all.  Even  the  life  of  Our  Lady  is  utterly  un- 
known to  the  ordinary  Englishman.  Now  one  is 
obviously  lost  here  in  Florence  where  there  are  miles 
of  pictures,  and  miles  of  frescoes  dealing  for  the  most 
part  with  the  lives  of  saints,  if  one  is  utterly  ignorant 
of  the  very  names  of  those  of  whom  they  speak.  But 
with  some  knowledge  of  these  lovely  and  superb 
souls,  nothing  can  be  more  enjoyable  than  to  spend 

P 


226  FLORENCE 

• 
some  time  in  their  company.  And  indeed  in  Flor- 
ence one  is  in  the  home  of  Literature  and  the  Arts ; 
Commerce  does  not  force  itself  on  one's  notice  as  at 
Genoa,  but  one's  thoughts  turn  to  Dante  and  Giottc 
who  were  friends,  to  Lionardo  da  Vinci  and  Michael 
Angelo,  and  Ghiberti  who  forged  the  Paradise  Gate 
of  the  Baptistery.  Everywhere  one  is  surrounded  by 
beauty,  save  in  the  Piazza  Vittorio  Emanuele,  a 
hideous  stucco  square  with  a  ridiculous  monument 
in  the  midst,  that  occupies  the  place  of  the  old  and 
beautiful  market-place  of  the  city.  Vandalism  ap- 
pears to  have  suffered  a  renaissance  under  the  House 
of  Savoy  as  Learning  did  under  the  house  of  Medici ; 
and  it  is  here  in  Florence,  I  think,  that  one  learns 
to  be  ashamed  for  modern  liberty  and  democracy 
with  its  licence  and  make-believe. 

Richer  than  any  other  city  in  Europe  in  pictures, 
it  is  impossible  to  notice  the  three  great  galleries  at 
any  length  here.  The  Pitti  Palace,  designed  by 
Brunelleschi,  and  for  the  present  the  king's  residence 
in  Florence,  is  a  gallery  of  masterpieces  collected  by 
the  Medici,  in  which  almost  every  picture  is  worthy 
of  long  study  and  attention.  Among  the  portraits  I 
would  name  the  one  by  Titian  of  that  Duke  of 
Norfolk  exiled  by  Richard  II.,  who  eventually  died 
in  a  monastery  in  Venice.  The  extraordinarily 
beautiful  English  face,  fulfilled  with  some  incalculable 
romance,  is,  to  me  at  least,  by  far  the  most  delightful 
portrait  in  Florence.  One  seems  to  understand  Eng- 
land, her  charm,  her  fascination,  her  extraordinary 


THE    PITTI    PALACE  227 

persistence,  on  looking  at  this  picture  of  one  of  her 
sons,  as  never  before [:  all  the  tragedy  of  her  kings, 
the  adventure  to  be  met  with  in  her  seas,  the  beauty 
and  culture  of  Oxford,  and  the  serenity  of  her  country 
places  come  back  to  one  fresh  and  unsullied  by  the 
memories  of  the  defiling  and  trumpery  cities  that  so 
lately  have  begun  to  destroy  her.  Raphael's  pictures 
are  more  numerous  here  than  in  any  other  gallery, 
and  the  almost  fabulous  Giorgione  is  represented  by 
the  magnificent  picture  called  The  Concert,  of  which 
Pater  has  written  so  exquisitely,  "  The  Concert  in 
the  Pitti  Palace,"  he  writes,  "  in  which  a  monk  with 
cowl  and  tonsure  touches  the  keys  of  a  harpsichord, 
while  a  clerk  placed  behind  him  grasps  the  handle  of 
a  viol,  and  a  third  with  cap  and  plume  seems  to  wait 
upon  the  true  interval  for  beginning  to  sing,  is  un- 
doubtedly Giorgione's.1  The  outline  of  the  lifted 
finger,  the  trace  of  the  plume,  the  very  threads  of  the 
fine  linen,  which  fasten  themselves  in  the  memory  in 
the  moment  before  they  are  lost  altogether  in  that 
calm  unearthly  glow,  the  skill  which  has  caught  the 
waves  of  wandering  sound  and  fixed  them  for  ever 
on  the  lips  and  hands — these  are  indeed  the  master's 
own ;  .  .  .  and  among  the  most  precious  things  in 
the  world  of  art," 

Bartolommeo  and  Andrea  del  Sarto  are  also  mag- 
nificently represented,  especially  the  latter,  who  was 


1  Kugler  throws  doubt  on  its  authenticity,  however,  supposing  it  to 
be  an  early  work  by  Titian.  Cf.  Kugler,  '  Iialian  Schools  of  Painting,' 
vol.  ii.  55. 


228  FLORENCE 

the  first  among  the  few  "  colourists  "  Florence  pro- 
duced. For  in  all  Florentine  art  it  is  design, 
drawing,  idea,  rather  than  colour,  as  with  the 
Venetian,  that  we  find  ; — especially  valuable  qualities, 
with  which  art  renewed  herself. 

The  Uffizi  Gallery,  with  its  collections  of  sculpture, 
painting,    drawings,    and    jewels,    is   perhaps   less   a 
scrupulous  collection,   but   not  less  valuable  to  the 
student.      Botticelli,    of  whom    Mr    Pater   was    the 
first  to  write  in  England,  is  magnificently  represented 
by  the  Adoration  of  the  Kings  (1286),  The  Birth  of 
Venus,  Calumny,  and  Judith  with  the  Head  of  Holo- 
fernes,  together  with  several  Holy  Families ;  Titian, 
Raphael,    Andrea   del    Sarto,    Giorgione,    Correggio, 
Lionardo    da    Vinci,    are    represented    by    splendid 
pictures,  but  they  can  all  be  studied  better  elsewhere. 
Fra  Filippo  Lippi  and  Filippino  Lippi,  the  master 
and  pupil  of  Botticelli,  are,  however,  seen  here  and 
at  the  Accademia  in  their  full  glory.     Fra  Angelico, 
whose  Tabernacle  and  Predella  in  the  Hall  of  Lorenzo 
Monaco  are  among  the  chief  treasures  of  the  collec- 
tion, is  almost  as  glorious   here  as  at   San   Marco, 
though  not  so  ubiquitous*     One  is  overwhelmed  by 
the  glories  of  the  lives  of  men,  the  beauty  of  the 
gods,  the  splendour  of  earth  no  less  than  of  heaven. 
The  art  of  the  fifteenth  century  comes  to  one  as  a 
strong  and  mighty  angel,  not  without  sins.     And  in 
a  world  given  over  to  all  the  luxury  of  a  great  city, 
the  home  of  princes  and  of  the  revolution  of  the  mind 
of  man,  amidst  all  the  sensuality  of  that  awakened 


z  ^ 

>      « 

o 

"       -v. 

UJ    =Q 
X     ? 

-r. 


-v. 


THE    UFFIZI    GALLERY  229 

mind,  the  animalism  of  the  Latin  race  that  has 
never  been  sufficiently  powerful  to  kill  the  spiritual- 
ity that  is  alive  in  the  race  even  to-day,  one  finds  that 
Florence  created  an  ideal  idea,  that  went  hand  in 
hand  with  her  religion,  only  to  transform  it  utterly, 
and  in  time  to  supersede  it.  Yet  she  still  kept  about 
her  her  ancient  mantle,  figured  with  supernatural  life, 
full  of  astounding  adventures,  lighted  by  the  genius 
of  saint  and  martyr,  artist  and  hero.  At  first,  as 
with  the  earliest  men,  and  with  Fra  Angelico,  art 
was  in  her  hands  a  kind  of  symbol ;  so  that  one 
might  almost  say  that  here  was  an  alphabet,  certain 
signs,  colours,  or  natural  objects  that  had  come  to 
have  a  limited  or  certain  meaning.  And  then  life 
thrusts  itself  on  man's  notice,  and  the  gods  and 
heaven  itself  are  forgotten  for  the  beauty  of  earth 
and  the  strength  of  man.  Thus  Luca  Signorelli 
introduces  into  his  picture  of  the  Adoration  of  the 
Shepherds  naked  youths,  that  he  may  express  his 
love  for  the  human  form,  its  glory,  its  perfection ;  and 
so  at  last  the  religious  painters  are  out-moded,  and 
the  realists,  those  who  had  fallen  in  love  with  life, 
are  victorious,  and  the  great  names  of  the  sixteenth 
century  are  carved  on  the  minds  of  men  never  to  be 
erased.  It  is,  I  think,  in  some  such  mood,  and  with 
some  such  idea  as  this,  that  one  leaves  the  Uffizi  for 
the  first  time,  perhaps  a  little  bewildered  by  the 
number  of  the  pictures  and  the  pieces  of  sculpture. 
And  of  these  latter  it  may  be  said  that  he  who  has 
not  seen  the  Venus  dei  Medici  is  indeed  unfortunate. 


230  FLORENCE 

She  is  the  younger  sister,  perhaps,  of  that  Aphrodite 
returning  from  the  bath  that  Praxiteles  made.  For 
though  so  good  a  judge  as  Shelley  considered  the 
goddess  in  the  Tribune  as  "  the  finest  personification 
of  Venus  t  .  .  in  all  antique  statuary,"  to  me,  at 
least,  she  is  less  beautiful  than  Venus  of  Melos,  and 
less  profoundly  the  "goddess  of  desire"  than  Venus 
of  the  CapitoL  She  is  innocent,  while  the  Roman 
is  learned  in  the  secrets  of  love,  and  is,  while  less 
perfect  perhaps  in  form,  more  desirable  by  far. 
Found  in  Hadrian's  villa,  below  Tivoli,  Cosimo  III., 
of  the  House  of  Medici,  brought  her  to  Florence 
in  1677,  where  she  was  considered  to  be  "  a  work 
among  other  works  as  the  very  goddess  among 
other  goddesses,"  easily  the  first.  But  that  she  is 
inferior  in  no  small  degree  to  the  Aphrodite  of 
Cnidos,  of  which  Ovid  wrote,  is,  since  the  dis- 
covery of  that  statue,  impossible  of  denial ;  but 
Shelley  died  too  soon  to  see  the  Cnidian  Venus. 

In  the  Hall  of  Niobe  are  the  famous  antique 
copies  of  the  group  of  Niobe  with  her  sons  and 
daughters.  Niobe  herself  is,  as  Shelley  beautifully 
says,  "the  consummation  of  feminine  majesty  and 
loveliness,  beyond  which  the  imagination  scarcely 
doubts  that  it  can  conceive  nothing."  The  child 
at  her  knees,  "terrified  as  we  may  conceive  by  the 
destruction  of  all  its  kindred,  has  fled  to  its  mother, 
and  is  hiding  its  head  in  the  folds  of  her  robe,  and 
casting  back  one  arm  as  in  a  passionate  appeal  for 
defence,  where  it  never  before  could  have  been  sought 


THE    UFFIZI    GALLERY  231 

in  vain.  Everything  is  swallowed  up  in  sorrow :  she 
is  all  tears :  her  gaze,  in  assured  expectation  of  the 
arrow  piercing  its  last  victim  in  her  embrace,  is 
fixed  on  her  omnipotent  enemy.  The  pathetic 
beauty  of  the  expression  of  her  tender  and  in- 
exhaustible and  unquenchable  despair  is  beyond  the 
effect  of  sculpture.  As  soon  as  the  arrow  shall  pierce 
her  last  tie  upon  earth,  the  fable  that  she  was  turned 
into  stone  or  dissolved  in  a  fountain  of  tears  will  be 
but  a  feeble  emblem  of  the  sadness  of  hopelessness 
in  which  the  few  and  evil  years  of  her  remaining 
life  we  feel  must  flow  away.  It  is  difficult  to  speak 
of  the  beauty  of  the  countenance,  or  to  make  in- 
telligible in  words  from  what  such  astonishing  loveli- 
ness results."  Indeed  I  know  but  one  head  in  all 
antiquity  in  which  the  expression  is  so  lovely,  and 
that  is  a  statue  of  Demeter  of  Cnidos  in  the  British 
Museum,  where  the  expression,  the  soul  speaking  in 
the  face,  seems  almost  for  the  first  time  to  have  found 
expression,  whence  it  has  utterly  overcome  all  art, 
and  is  the  very  touchstone  of  genius. 

But  the  Uffizi,  crowded  as  it  is  with  the  treasures 
of  many  ages,  will  after  all  impress  the  traveller 
chiefly  as  a  picture  -  gallery,  which,  so  far  as  the 
Italian  school  is  concerned,  is  among  the  first  in 
the  world.  It  is  impossible  within  the  covers  of  a 
book  devoted  to  Italy  and  the  Italians  to  do  more 
than  touch  upon  the  enormous  wealth  of  ancient 
art  in  the  possession  of  almost  every  city.  And 
here  in   Florence  more  than  anywhere  else  I  know 


232  FLORENCE 

my  feebleness.  Where  libraries  have  scarcely  sufficed 
to  treat  adequately  so  great  a  subject  it  is  almost 
ridiculous  for  a  book  of  a  few  hundred  pages  to  be 
anything  but  silent.  Yet  I  have  ventured  to  set 
down  in  some  detail  the  lives  of  two  of  the  lesser 
artists  of  Florence  in  the  days  of  her  glory  and 
youth.  If  within  these  two  meagre  chapters  I 
have  managed  to  convey  to  the  reader  some  sugges- 
tion of  the  times  and  the  lives  of  these  men,  I  am 
content.  In  order  to  care  for  any  work  of  art  really 
deeply  it  is,  I  am  assured,  necessary  to  know  and  to 
understand  the  life  and  ideas  of  the  artist,  to  sym- 
pathise with  him  as  it  were,  so  that  the  emotion  of 
the  onlooker  may  generously  expand  the  perhaps  im- 
perfect or  tentative  achievement  of  the  artist  to  the 
full  measure  of  his  intention.  Therefore,  instead  of 
a  long  and,  as  I  think,  useless  sermon  upon,  or  de- 
scription of,  the  picture  or  other  work  of  art,  I  have 
placed  these  two  short  lives  of  Fra  Lippo  Lippi  and 
Luca  della  Robbia  before  the  reader,  not  without 
fear  that  he  may  imagine  I  think  them  adequate ; 
because  it  is  in  some  such  way  as  I  have  ventured 
there  to  suggest  that  I  believe  the  way  to  true 
appreciation  lies. 

The  Accademia  delie  Belle  Arti  is  perhaps  to 
the  student  the  most  interesting  picture-gallery  in 
Florence.  The  late  Mr  Grant  Allen,  whose  method 
as  set  forth  for  the  traveller  in  those  inimitable 
guide-books  of  his  I  fear  I  have  never  dared  to 
follow,   says  that  it  is  "  by  far  the  most  important 


ACCADEMIA   DELLE    BELLE   ARTI     233 

gallery  in  Florence  for  the  study  of  Florentine  art." 
For  though  it  contains  less  masterpieces  than  the 
Pitti,  and  has  not  the  variety  of  the  Uffizi,  it  is 
here  one  finds  the  earlier  masters  of  the  fourteenth 
and  fifteenth  centuries  without  whom  the  art  of 
Raphael  and  Lionardo,  Michael  Angelo  and  the 
Venetians,  is  not  to  be  understood.  It  also  has  the 
advantage  of  a  complete  collection  of  casts  of  the 
sculpture  of  Michael  Angelo,  and  the  master's  David 
as  he  carved  it,  removed  here  from  the  Piazza 
Signoria.  One  of  Botticelli's  most  famous  pictures, 
the  Primavera,  is  also  here  in  the  Sala  Prima  del 
Botticelli,  together  with  some  of  the  loveliest  work 
of  his  master  Fra  Lippo  Lippi.  Gentile  da  Fabriano's 
Adoration  of  the  Magi,  removed  from  the  Sacristy 
of  Santa  Trinita,  and  Fra  Angelico's  Descent  from 
the  Cross,  also  from  Santa  Trinita,  are  the  master- 
pieces of  the  two  artists,  at  least  apart  from  fresco 
so  far  as  the  Fra  Angelico  is  concerned.  In  the 
Adoration  of  the  Magi  the  curiously  delightful 
attempt  to  paint  a  sunrise  is  to  be  noticed,  and  in 
the  latter  the  still  visible  marks  of  flagellation  on 
the  Body  of  the  Christ. 

But  there  is  a  Florence  apart  from  her  churches 
and  her  galleries  which  the  traveller  must  by  no 
means  miss.  It  is  fairly  easy,  given  sufficient  time 
and  a  good  catalogue  and  guide-book,  such  as  E. 
Grin's,  to  know  something  of  that  Florence  which  is 
preserved  in  museums  and  churches :  but  without  in 


234  FLORENCE 

any  way  wishing  to  suggest  that  such  a  Florence  is 
less  priceless  than  it  really  is,  I  think  that  there  is 
another  city  too  which  it  is  less  easy  to  know  and 
care  for,  perhaps  because  it  is  more  common  but  less 
obvious — I  mean  even  Florence  herself  as  she  is  to- 
day. Pierre  Loti,  than  whom  no  more  sensitive  artist 
ever  gazed  over  a  city  at  night-fall,  has  said  some- 
where that  to  see  things  by  stealth  in  the  evening  for 
the  first  time  in  a  glance,  as  it  were,  without  being 
able  to  take  a  second  look,  is  the  way  to  receive  a 
really  true  impression  of  them.  Well,  it  may  well  be 
that  one  coming  to  Florence  in  the  evening,  when  all 
the  galleries  would  be  shut>  who  would  have  nothing 
to  do  but  wander  up  and  down  her  streets,  and,  it  may 
be,  into  a  church  or  two*  would  gather  a  more  perfect 
image  of  this  flower-like  city  than  that  traveller  who, 
with  his  nose  in  his  guide-book,  dashes  from  gallery 
to  church,  and  from  church  to  museum,  in  a  cab  all 
the  day  long,  To  see  the  Venus  of  the  Medici  and  to 
miss  hearing  the  singers  that  come  with  the  moon- 
light, or  the  fall  of  the  waters  of  Arno  towards  the 
Cascine,  would  be  but  a  sorry  way  of  seeing  Florence. 
Nor  is  it  to  the  Florence  of  Ruskin,  nor  to  the  Flor- 
ence of  the  Gambrinus  Halle  and  the  like,  that  I  would 
lead  the  traveller,  but  to  Florence  herself,  which  is 
really  independent  alike  of  traveller  and  modern 
citizen,  populated  as  she  is  by  the  great  figures  of 
the  past  and  the  dreams  of  our  very  selves  for  years 
before  we  had  the  fortune  to  set  e)^es  upon  her. 


XIII. 

FLORENCE.— II. 

THERE  has  been  so  much  written  on  the  history, 
the  arts,  the  churches,  and  the  great  men  of 
Florence  that,  at  least  for  the  educated  traveller,  it  is 
to  no  strange  city  he  comes  when  he  enters  her  gates, 
but  to  a  place  almost  as  well  known  as  Rome,  and 
certainly  as  beloved.  Yet,  after  all,  when  one  has 
seen  all  the  galleries,  and  all  the  churches,  and  all  the 
statues,  there  still  remains,  better  than  them  all,  Flor- 
ence herself,  of  whom  they  are  but  the  splendid  orna- 
ments. What  I  am  going  to  write  is  only  for  those 
who  are  not  in  the  power  of  the  first  passion  of  dis- 
covery, who,  having  seen  all  her  ornaments  and  loved 
them,  are  after  all  really  in  love  with  La  Bella  herself, 
and  are  content.  It  is  curious  how  the  English  love 
Florence  better  than  any  other  Italian  city.  Is  there 
something  of  home  in  her  quiet,  perverse  streets ; 
something  of  an  English  cathedral  town  in  the  no- 
bility of  her  gesture  and  her  expression  ?  No  ;  I  think 
there  is  very  little  of  England  in  a  city  so  passionate ; 
she  conquers,  I  will  believe,  by  sheer  beauty.     Before 


236  FLORENCE 

any  city  in  the  world  she  seems  to  smile ;  one  is  in 

love  with  her  from  the  first  morning,  she  is  so  frank 

and  joyful  and  grave.     She  has  built  also  within  her 

walls  two  towers,  the  one  to  Liberty  and  the  other  to 

Humility,  and  that  is  the  fairest  of  all  towers  in  the 

world. 

"  Her  ways  are  ways  of  pleasantness, 
And  all  her  paths  are  peace." 

As  I  look  down  over  the  near  valleys  to  the  evening 
mist  in  the  distance  touched  with  gold,  where  Arno 
winds  like  a  silver  thread  over  the  plain  towards  the 
city,  these  words  always  come  into  my  mind.  Seen 
from  some  village  without  the  city,  it  is  as  though  for 
the  first  time  one  had  experienced  quiet,  and  realised 
just  for  a  moment  the  beauty  of  holiness.  In  these 
tiny  villages  in  the  dawn  the  country-folk,  with  now 
and  then  a  stranger  from  the  city,  come  into  the 
church  for  Mass,  and  the  children  bring  flowers — irises 
or  tall  nodding  Florentine  lilies — which  the  Capuchins 
help  them  to  lay  at  the  altar  of  Our  Lady.  At  night, 
as  one  gazes  on  Florence  from  afar,  she  seems  to  be 
made  of  some  great  precious  stone ;  the  roofs  and 
towers  that  the  moon  strikes  seem  so  far  away ;  the 
great  and  holy  dome  of  the  Duomo  like  the  name  of 
Mary  unuttered  on  the  lips ;  and  then  one  seems  to 
hear  the  call  at  dawn  on  the  mountains,  far,  oh  !  far 
away,  and  the  rush  of  a  distant  waterfall  as  one 
drowses  off  to  sleep.  I  once  saw  a  star  shoot  across 
heaven  over  the  city  leaving  a  train  of  gold, — I  still 
treasure  the  vision  ;  and  from  my  village  in  the  hills  I 


MADONNA  OF  THE  STREET  CORNER  237 

used  to  sit  and  watch  the  night  grow  up  like  a  great 
lily  out  of  the  valleys.  Then  on  a  night  in  June  I 
have  heard  just  a  little  laugh  come  in  at  my  window 
in  the  twilight,  while  the  chestnut-trees  were  shedding 
their  blossoms  white  and  red  :  it  must  have  been  such 
a  little  laugh  that  Lippo  Lippi  heard  from  the  great 
house  at  the  corner — 

"  There  came  a  hurry  of  feet,  and  little  feet, 
A  sweep  of  lute-strings,  laughs,  and  whifts  of  song — 
Flower  d  the  broom  j 
Take  away  love  and  our  earth  is  a  tomd." 

Ah !  you  too  have  heard  those  mandolines  mixing 
with  the  noise  of  the  streams,  singing  wonderful 
songs ;  you  too,  perhaps,  have  under  that  profound 
starry  sky  wondered  at  the  hearts  of  men. 

Or  in  the  deep  heart  of  the  night  I  have  seen  some 
old  woman  lying  before  a  little  shrine  of  Madonna  at 
the  corner  of  some  street,  prostrate  under  some  un- 
imaginable sorrow,  some  unappeasable  regret,  some  ter- 
rible awakening.  Does  she  hear — that  Virgin  with  the 
narrow  half-open  eyes  and  the  side-long  look  ?  God, 
I  know  not  if  she  hears  or  no.  Perhaps  she  does  not 
hear — she  is  occupied  with  grand  and  joyful  things ; 
how  should  she  hear  or  care  or  know  ?  Perhaps  I 
alone  have  heard  in  all  the  world.  Heaven  is  too 
calm,  too  spotless,  too  beautiful  to  dare  to  sympathise 
with  so  desolate  a  sorrow.  No,  it  is  impossible  that 
they  who  have  heard  the  Voice  as  of  many  waters 
should  care  to  listen  to  a  poor  old  woman  sobbing  and 
in  tears. 


238  FLORENCE 

To  you,  travellers,  whose  eyes  are  satiated  with 
Saints  and  Virgins,  who  have  found  them  ever  occupied 
with  their  own  perfections,  does  it  seem  wonderful 
that  one  should  cry  to  them  in  vain  ?  But  Madonna 
of  the  Street  Corner  is  perhaps  less  exclusive  than 
those  majestical,  who  have  attained  to  the  honour  of  a 
place  in  the  Uffizi  or  the  Pitti  Palace  and  look  their 
best  for  you.  Yet  I  will  even  call  them,  in  spite  of 
protest,  unfortunate.  Their  ears,  long  since  filled  it 
may  well  be  with  heavenly  music,  hear  no  prayers  from 
those  who  are  still  wretched  and  alone.  Vulgar  and 
incredulous  eyes  gaze  on  their  beauty  and  their  pain ; 
their  ecstasy  or  death  is  watched  for  ever  by  stupid 
unseeing  eyes  that  have  no  love  for  them,  and  it  may 
be,  those  who  gaze  never  heard  their  names  before. 
Madonna  of  the  Street  Corner,  in  all  her  little  pomp  of 
blue  and  white,  and  few  and  vulgar  silver  hearts,  she 
at  least  is  loved  of  some  who  pass  by,  not  without  a 
reverent  smile.  She  mothers  those  whom  the  streets 
houseo  Poor  Queen  of  Angels,  with  her  tiny  flickering 
lamp,  she  hears  the  very  city  speak  in  its  sleep,  and 
doubtless  talks  with  her  Son  in  the  quiet  night.  Ah  ! 
I  never  doubted  her  really  for  a  moment.  Be  sure 
she  hears,  and  is  compassionate,  and  is  occupied  all 
day  long,  when  because  of  the  noise  and  the  eyes  of 
men  one  only  glances  at  her  from  a  distance,  fearing  to 
worship  openly,  in  praying  for  her  sinners  now  and  as 
she  will  do  in  the  hour  of  their  death. 

This  city  of  warm  brick,  with  its  churches  of  marble 
and  its  palaces  of  stone,  comes  in  time  to  hold  for  us 


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MR   RUSKIN  239 

all  our  dreams,  all  the  unattainable  things  in  the 
world.  And  of  all  its  precious  possessions,  that  which 
to  me  at  least  seems  most  lovely  is  the  sweet  bride  of 
Michael  Angelo — Santa  Maria  Novella.  For  here  at 
last  in  Florence  is  a  really  beautiful  church,  the 
interior  not  unworthy  of  the  exterior,  as  is  the  case 
with  Santa  Maria  delle  Fiore  and  Santa  Croce ; 
moreover,  as  Mr  Ruskin  I  think  is  careful  to  tell  one, 
it  was  the  parish  church  of  Giotto.  Magnificent  as 
was  Mr  Ruskin's  enthusiasm  for  what  he  had  con- 
vinced himself  in  one  way  or  another  was  lovely  and 
noble  and  the  truth,  he  was,  I  think,  at  least  in 
Florence,  a  little  lacking  in  charity.  It  is  true  I  have 
gazed  always  with  new  pleasure  on  the  little  fresco 
work  he  sets  such  store  by  in  the  cloister,  yet  I  am 
convinced  that  many  who  have  loved  Florence  at  least 
as  well  as  he  never  became  an  idolater  before  that 
particular  piece  of  fresco,  After  all.  Florence  is 
greater  than  her  greatest  sons.  Having  produced 
Giotto  and  buried  him,  how  many  other  great  men, 
statesmen,  poets,  and  artists,  did  she  not  produce 
without  fatigue.  Savonarola  was  no  less  her  son  than 
Giotto,  and  has  proved  as  immortal  too ;  yet  it  is  easy 
to  feel  resentment  against  the  mighty  puritan,  easier 
still  to  fail  to  do  him  justice.  It  is  impossible  for  any 
one  Florentine  to  sum  up  and  exhaust  the  city  as 
Mr  Ruskin  rhetorically  imagined.  Yet  I  think  that, 
perhaps,  since  this  courageous  and  moving  dictum  of 
Mr  Ruskin's  may,  strictly  speaking,  be  nonsense,  it 
serves  a  useful  purpose  in  sending  the  traveller  for 


240  FLORENCE 

certain  to  Santa  Maria  Novella,  where  he  will  see 
other  things  as  fine  as  Giotto — the  frescoes  in  the 
Capella  degli  Spagnuoli,  attributed  to  Taddeo  Gaddi 
and  Simone  Memmi,  for  instance,  and  the  Cimabue 
Madonna,  and  the  church  itself.  If  one  so  little 
careful  of  mere  sight-seeing  as  the  present  writer  may 
advise  the  reader  in  the  matter  of  a  guide-book,  he 
would  say,  go  to  Messrs  Flor  &  Findel,  on  the 
Lung'  Arno  Acciajoli,  and  buy  '  Saunterings  in  Flor- 
ence,' by  E.  Grifi?  which  is  by  far  the  best  (and 
cheapest)  book  on  the  city  to  be  had,  For  other 
places  Mr  Hare  is  better  than  a  wilderness  of  German 
Baedekers,  and  not  nearly  so  compromising. 

Having  spent  a  morning  in  Santa  Maria  Novella, 
and  vowed  return  to  Cimabue's  Madonna,  one  may 
find  coolness  and  shade  in  the  convent  of  San  Marco, 
where  one  comes  upon  Savonarola,  having  passed  the 
place  of  his  martyrdom  in  the  Piazza  Signoria  on  the 
way*  And  here  indeed  one  is,  on  a  summer's  day,  in 
paradise.  Around  one  blossom  the  frescoes  of  that 
dear  and  devout  soul  Fra  Angelico  da  Fiesole.  Of 
all  the  pictures  in  the  world  his  little  meditations  in 
the  tiny  cells  of  his  brothers  move  me  most.  The 
Nativity  (in  cell  No.  5),  where  St  Catherine  has 
come  to  see  her  bridegroom,  and  the  very  angels 
of  heaven  hover  over  the  cowshed.  The  Empty 
Tomb  (in  cell  No.  8),  when  Christ  rose  from  the  dead, 
with  Mary  utterly  bewildered  and  dazzled  at  the 
fortune  of  the  world,  while  Christ  unseen  looks  on 
as  though  ready  to  come  to  her  assistance  should  she 


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FRA   ANGELICO  241 

fall,  overcome  by  joy.  The  Presentation  of  Christ 
(in  cell  No.  10),  where  the  beautiful  babyhood  of  II 
Gesu  Cristo  is  a  very  vision,  such  as  St  Rose  of  Lima 
saw  when  the  infant  Christ  came  to  play  with  her 
and  left  her  beggared.  And  so,  magnificent  as  are 
the  Annunciation,  Angelico's  favourite  subject,  and 
The  Crucifixion,  in  the  chapter  house,  it  is  always 
to  these  smaller  frescoes  I  return  with  a  never-failing 
joy.  And  yet  who,  looking  on  the  Crucifixion,  can 
desire  anything  else  ?  Even  Kugler  with  all  his 
science  allows  that  it  is  in  point  of  religious  ex- 
pression "  one  of  the  most  beautiful  works  of  art 
existing."  In  these  figures  grouped  so  simply  beneath 
the  three  crosses  all  the  ecstacy  and  sorrow  of  the 
world  seem  to  find  expression.  The  hair  of  Magdalene 
is  like  a  river  of  red  gold,  the  Virgin  is  a  pale  lily 
drooping  at  midday,  and  Christ  upon  the  Tree  of  Life 
glows  over  all,  the  very  light  of  the  world. 

In  studying  the  works  of  Fra  Angelico  it  is  inter- 
esting to  notice  the  few  colours  he  uses, — uses  sym- 
bolically, mystically,  one  may  think,  after  due  and 
grave  consideration  of  their  value  and  meaning. 
Thus  white  is  the  colour  of  truth,  of  virginity,  and 
of  God ;  red  of  innocence  and  of  the  Passion ;  blue 
of  quietness,  calmness,  and  virginity ;  green  of  hope 
and  contemplation ;  black  of  death  and  evil ;  violet 
of  mourning  and  penitence ;  grey  of  trouble  and 
tribulation ;  yellow  of  jealousy  and  envy ;  and  rose 
of  the  victory  ot  Christ  with  its  anguish  and  sorrow 
and  triumph. 

Q 


242  FLORENCE 

One  finds  but  few  of  Fra  Angelico's  works  out  of 
Florence,  and  so  while  Lionardo  is  perhaps  best  studied 
at  Paris  or  at  Milan,  Michael  Angelo  at  Rome,  and 
Giotto  at  Assisi  and  Padua,  Fra  Angelico,  Botticelli, 
and  Andrea  del  Sarto  are  found  at  Florence,  and 
should  be  studied  there,  together  with  two  lesser 
men,  whose  chief  characteristic  was  their  humanism, 
who  amid  all  the  splendid  names  that  ring  in  our 
ears,  here  in  Florence  we  shall  do  well  to  remember, 
seeing  that  even  among  those  most  famous  they  are 
altogether  lovely. 


XIV. 
LUCA    DELLA    ROBBIA. 

FROM  the  sunrise  to  the  middle  day  of  the  world's 
history,  perhaps  even  to  the  lowering  sun  at 
evening,  it  would  seem  there  have  been  seasons 
which  have  had  a  curious  fascination  for  those  who 
have  come  after.  And  to  us  of  this  century,  who 
have  lost  so  much  of  the  picturesque  from  life, 
some  of  those  illuminative  days,  whose  deeds  some- 
times, whose  spirit  always,  live  after  them,  would 
seem  to  have  a  more  direct  appeal. 

The  age  of  the  Renaissance  in  Italy,  with  its  after- 
glow in  France,  dying  at  last  on  the  same  soil  from 
which  it  had  sprung,  is  one  of  them,  one  indeed 
which  we  can  hardly  study  too  much — hardly  give 
too  much  thought  and  patience  to  the  reading  of  its 
enigmas. 

The  fourteenth  and  fifteenth  centuries  in  which  the 
learning  of  the  ancient  world  had  been  re-discovered, 
in  which  the  graciousness  of  Plato  was  a  subject  of 
polite  conversation,  and  the  Paganism  of  Greece  was 
beginning   to  find  new  half -veiled   advocates,    pro- 


244  LUCA   DELLA   ROBBIA 

duced  many  strange  personalities,  much  exquisite 
work,  and  a  history  half  legend,  half  truth,  which  has 
laid  hold  of  the  mind  of  mankind,  and  demanded 
attention  so  strenuously  that  we  should  not  be  far 
wrong  in  naming  it  as  the  most  fascinating  age  in 
history. 

Florence,  with  its  dust  and  heat,  its  sweetly 
shaded  valleys,  its  quaint  streets  and  houses,  charms 
us  both  by  her  simplicity  and  by  a  strange  spirit 
which  seems  everywhere  in  her  walls  and  her  pic- 
tures. The  young  girl  standing  in  the  doorway  with 
a  wonderful  gracefulness,  a  negligent  arm  behind  her 
head,  with  contour  of  parted  lips  and  falling  eyelids, 
just  in  the  shadow,  the  sun,  as  it  were,  trying  to  see 
the  glory  beneath  the  veiling  lids,  the  breeze  just 
whispering  as  a  lover  to  her — surely  it  is  some  such 
imaginary  portrait  as  this  that  conjures  up  Florence 
for  us. 

Yet  it  would  be  a  gain  all  the  greater  because  of 
its  impossibility,  to  get  back  to  the  Florence  of  the 
Renaissance  and  walk  with  Pico  della  Mirandola  or 
with  Simonetta  under  the  orange  trees  and  see  the 
face,  all  the  soft  lines,  the  sadness  of  the  eyes,  the 
wonderful  superiority,  the  exclusiveness  of  the  lines 
of  the  body  in  their  own  soft  earth  where  they 
were  once  so  skilfully  moulded,  which  attract  the 
men  of  our  generation  so  strangely. 

About  the  year  1400,  born  neither  to  poverty  nor 
riches,  but  enjoying,  in  an  age  whose  characteristic 
was  that  it  enjoyed  itself,  an  unwearied  frugality,  an 


LUCA    DELLA    ROBBIA  245 

unending  delight  in  simple  things,  a  child  played 
with  the  sunbeams,  who  was  to  come,  by  means  of 
these  simple  things,  to  some  eminence. 

His  family  we  are  led  to  believe  was  not  undis- 
tinguished, and  it  was  after  some  opposition,  and 
after  some  patient  but  we  may  be  sure  dutiful  in- 
sistence on  the  part  of  Luca,  that  old  Simone  di 
Marco  della  Robbia  gave  the  necessary  permission, 
and  apprenticed  his  son  to  Leonardo  di  Ser  Gio- 
vanni, a  goldsmith,  from  whom  Luca  was  to  learn, 
so  far  as  in  him  lay,  how  to  become  an  artist.  Leon- 
ardo seems  to  have  been  a  hard  taskmaster,  and 
certainly  to  his  scholarly  pupil,  who  never  forgot  a 
lesson,  who  all  his  life  assumed  the  attitude  of  the 
scholar  towards  his  teachers,  nay,  even  his  contem- 
poraries, old  Giovanni  must  have  been  trying  indeed. 
At  any  rate  we  find  Luca  before  long  in  the  house 
of  a  much  more  congenial  master^  one  of  the  greatest 
sculptors  of  his  day,  Lorenzo  Ghiberti.  From  him 
Luca  learned  in  that  loyal  way  —  loyalty  to  his 
masters  being  one  of  his  most  pronounced  char- 
acteristics, amounting  almost  to  a  gift  with  him — 
to  cast  in  bronze. 

His  loyalty  receives  almost  touching  expression  in 
regard  to  Giotto,  seventy  years  dead ;  for  he  is  com- 
missioned to  execute  panels  for  Giotto's  Campanile, 
"  The  Shepherd's  Tower,"  the  most  glorious  tower  in 
the  world,  and  for  the  time  being  he,  as  it  were, 
becomes  the  pupil  of  Giotto.  So  like  the  master, 
indeed,  are  these  panels,  so  Giottesque  in  feeling  and 


246  LUCA   DELLA   ROBBIA 

execution,  that  it  has  been  supposed  Giotto  left  draw- 
ings for  them  ;  but  I  think,  seeing  there  is  nothing 
to  prove  any  such  hypothesis,  that  knowing  Luca's 
loyalty,  it  is  much  more  reasonable,  more  gracious 
too,  perhaps,  to  think  of  him  as  loyal  to  the  great 
artist  and  architect  whom  he  with  all  Florentines 
would  reverence,  even  to  the  extent  of  effacing  him- 
self and  carrying  out  that  which  Giotto  was  unable 
to  do  in  the  way  he  believed  Giotto  would  have 
wished. 

Here  in  the  studio  of  Ghiberti,  who  could  tell  such 
wonderful  stories  of  the  world  beyond  Florence,  of 
that  long  ramble  he  made  when  a  boy,  starting 
suddenly  during  a  fit  of  romantic  longing  which  in 
the  end  lasted  so  long,  Luca  must  often  have  met 
Donatello  —  Donato,  Donatello  for  love,  the  other 
great  influence  in  his  life.  The  strong,  the  terrible 
power  that  sometimes  seems  almost  to  descend  in 
Donatello,  the  realism,  if  one  may  use  such  a  word  in 
an  age  that  was  happily  ignorant  of  what  it  has  come 
to  mean  for  us,  against  the  sweet,  summer  -  like 
sentimentalism,  the  romance,  sometimes  perhaps  the 
prettiness,  of  Ghiberti, — these  are  the  two  influences 
which  must  have  borne  most  strongly  on  the  young 
Luca  even  in  those  early  days. 

"  Choose  ye  this  day  whom  ye  will  serve:"  "ye 
cannot  serve  God  and  mammon."  But  how  if 
neither  were  mammon  ?  how  if  both  were  good, 
each  in  its  way  ?  Luca,  contemplating  both,  wish- 
ing to  be  loyal  to  both,  hesitated,  and  in  the  end 


LUCA   DELLA    ROBBIA  247 

chose  neither,  hesitating  to  the  end  of  his  life. 
Now  he  leaned  towards  Ghiberti,  now  towards 
Donatello,  but  he  never  chose  either  method.  He 
hesitated,  and  hesitating,  curiously  enough  he  found 
salvation.  In  his  great  bronze  gates  for  the  sacristy 
in  the  cathedral  of  his  beloved  Florence,  we  may 
almost  see  the  struggle  it  had  come  to  be  for  him  to 
choose  between  those  two  influences.  And  surely  it 
is  more  than  a  fancied  difference,  surely  there  is  some- 
thing of  his  appreciation  of  both  methods,  his  love  of 
both  masters,  in  those  four  evangelists,  of  which  St 
Matthew  and  St  Mark  are  for  Donatello  and  St  Luke 
and  St  John  for  the  gentler  Ghiberti.  His  supposed 
earliest  works,  his  lunettes  of  the  Resurrection  and 
the  Ascension  in  the  Cathedral,  would  seem  to  have 
been  sculptured  rather  under  the  influence  of  Ghiberti 
than  of  his  great  contemporary,  and  yet  in  marked 
degree,  in  some  aspect  of  expression,  he  surpasses 
them  both.  For  not  only  has  Luca  the  slow,  hesi- 
tating choice — a  choice  that  is  never  really  made — of 
the  true  scholar,  as  we  see  in  this  wavering  which  is 
almost  a  compromise ;  but  he  realises,  is  indeed  the 
first  of  his  time  to  realise,  in  sculpture  the  power  of 
expressing  life.  What  the  Greeks  had  striven  perhaps 
in  vain  to  attain,  that  naturalness  in  sculpture,  as 
though  the  figure  were  really  about  to  breathe  and 
put  out  its  hand,  that  wonderful  vagueness  of  Michael 
Angelo,  akin  to  nature,  by  which  he  attained  the  same 
live-giving  effect,  a  something  more  than  mere  form, 
something  not  frozen,  an  expression  of  the  spirit  in 


248  LUCA    DELLA   ROBBIA 

fact,  bloomed  in  Luca's  work  like  a  new  wild-flower. 
Expression,  life,  the  power  to  express  the  spirit  in 
stone  or  bronze  or  terra-cotta,  these  are  what  he  really 
discovered,  and  not  the  mere  material  of  his  art  as 
Vasari  supposes.  It  is  the  first  exhibition  of  the 
Christian  idea  in  sculpture.  The  whole  philosophy  of 
Epicurus,  that  power  or  gift  of  making  the  most  of 
each  moment  as  it  passes ;  that  wonderful  eternal 
moment  frozen  for  ever  in  Greek  sculpture,  is  gone, 
and  instead  we  get  a  wonderful  restfulness.  The 
spirit  has  time  to  shine  forth,  and  Mary  Madonna  tells 
us  of  the  soul,  the  immortal  part  of  man. 

And  so  Luca,  having  made  this  great  discovery, 
hesitates  to  give  himself  to  either  side,  is  not  quite 
sure  perhaps  which  is  the  right  side,  and  in  hesitating 
he  gradually  drifts  into  a  kind  of  compromise  which 
surely  suits  that  message  of  his  of  spirit  in  life,  very 
happily. 

For  the  first  forty-five  or  fifty  years  of  his  life  he 
did  little,  at  least  that  remains  to  us :  he  was  a  man 
full  of  dreams,  and  possibly,  as  Vasari  leads  us  to 
believe,  full  of  invention  to  give  joy  to  all  people. 

In  the  year  1450  his  most  perfect  work  in  marble 
was  completed — begun  and  finished  within  the  year — 
the  monument  to  the  Bishop  of  Fiesole,  lately  dead, 
Benozzo  Federighi  by  name.  In  this  work,  as  one 
might  almost  expect,  there  is  a  hopefulness,  almost  a 
cheerfulness,  and  a  profusion  of  natural  things  that  is 
truly  Luca's  very  self — fruits,  garlands,  grapes,  John 
the  Baptist,  the  Christ  and  the  Virgin,  and  the  old 


LUCA    DELLA    ROBBIA  249 

ecclesiastic  too,  whose  features  express  not  oblivion, 
not  sleep  even,  but  the  very  spirit  of  repose  after 
labour ;  neither  the  terror  of  the  grave  nor  the  felicity 
of  some  sentimental  beatitude,  but  the  spirit  of  rest. 

During  those  fifty  years  Luca  must  have  been  far 
from  idle.  Searching  for  new  methods  of  art,  new 
means  of  expression,  he  came  upon  a  new  medium  by 
which  to  express  his  wonderful  discovery.  That  blue 
and  white  enamelled  terra-cotta,  could  it  have  come 
from  anywhere  but  Italy,  can  it  live  anywhere  but  in 
Italy  ?  Luca,  searching  for  some  humbler  material  in 
which  to  express  himself, — could  it  be  that  he  wished 
perhaps  to  popularise  his  work? — comes  upon  this 
terra-cotta,  and  chiefly  by  it,  dust  though  it  is,  is 
made  immortal.  Having,  as  we  have  seen,  in  early 
life  made  the  sacristy  doors  with  their  panels  for 
Santa  Maria  del  Fiore,  the  Cathedral  of  Florence,  he 
now  with  his  new  discovery  crowned  them,  for  over 
them,  where  perhaps  other  less  enduring  things 
might  not  dwell  because  of  the  damp,  he  placed  two 
angels  in  enamelled  terra-cotta. 

Among  the  first  to  give  Luca  commissions  for 
this  exquisite  work  in  clay  was  Piero  di  Cosimo 
Medici,  master  practically  of  Florence  and  patron 
of  the  arts.  For  him  Luca  decorated  a  small 
book-lined  chamber  in  the  great  Medici  palace  built 
by  Cosmo  de'  Medici.  His  work  was  for  the  ceil- 
ing and  the  pavement,  the  ceiling  being  a  half 
sphere.  For  the  hot  summer  days  of  Italy,  when 
the  streets  are  a  blaze  of  light  and  the  sun  seems 


250  LUCA    DELLA    ROBBIA 

literally  to  embrace  the  loved  city,  this  terra-cotta 
work  of  Luca's  with  its  cool  whites  and  blues 
was  particularly  delightful,  bringing  really  a  piece, 
as  it  were,  of  the  cool  moving  sea  or  the  soft 
sky  into  a  place  confined  and  shut  in.  And  by 
some  curious  "trick"  or  felicity  of  workmanship 
he  has  contrived  to  give  the  whole  the  appearance 
of  being  not  of  many  pieces  but  of  one  only,  as 
though  he  had  given  the  place  a  really  settled 
charm,  where,  in  the  summer  days,  scorching  and 
hot,  coolness,  temperance  might  find  a  safe  retreat. 
The  organ  loft  by  Luca  della  Robbia  made  for 
the  Cathedral,  his  chiefest  work,  is  often  compared 
to  that  which  now  stands  so  near  it,  the  organ 
loft  by  Donatello.  Luca,  as  usual  with  him  now, 
sets  out  to  express  the  abounding  spirit.  He  pro- 
poses to  illustrate  the  150th  Psalm,  "  Praise  the 
Lord.  Praise  Him  in  the  sound  of  the  trumpet : 
praise  Him  upon  the  lute  and  harp.  Praise  Him 
in  the  cymbals  and  dances :  praise  Him  upon  the 
strings  and  pipe."  For  expression  this  work  stands 
unequalled  by  any  of  his  contemporaries.  For 
Luca,  always  happiest  we  may  suppose  among 
children*  those  simple  souls  who  understood  the 
humble  dreamer,  has  here  repaid  them  in  full  for 
all  their  sympathy.  He  has  made  youth  a  thing 
of  beauty,  a  joy  for  ever,  giving  it  a  substance,  an 
immortality  which  in  the  short  elusive  morning  of 
human  reality  it  lacked.  He  always  succeeded  best 
with   children,  understanding  them,   perhaps  feeling 


LUCA   DELLA   ROBBIA  251 

for  them,  as  though  those  tender  ungrown  babies 
were  something  especially  precious  to  one  who 
all  his  life  had  loved  best  that  which  was  simple. 
The  voices  sound  on  our  ears,  the  throats  seem 
verily  to  throb,  and  the  eyes  show  unspeakable 
worship,  joy,  thanksgiving.  The  treble,  alto,  tenor, 
and  bass,  all  are  heard  :  it  is  a  triumph  of  the  spirit 
in  the  expression  of  a  few  youths  and  maidens. 

The  choice  of  the  humbler  way,  the  search  for 
meekness,  did  not  go  unrewarded.  His  work  in 
terra  -  cotta  gradually  became  famous  throughout 
Italy,  throughout  Europe.  He  is  worked  to  death, 
so  many  desiring  to  possess  the  work  of  the  artist 
who  had  chosen  that  which  was  in  itself  so  poor, 
and  elevated  it  by  the  very  simplicity,  the  noble- 
ness and  sweetness  of  his  genius,  that  he  is  unable 
to  satisfy  all  their  demands.  It  is  like  the  story 
of  Michael  Angelo,  who  being  commanded  by  the 
great  Medici  to  model  a  figure  in  snow  during  a 
snowy  winter  in  the  courtyard  of  the  Pitti  Palace 
at  Florence,  as  though  in  irony  gave  to  the  work 
his  mightiest  powers,  and  on  that  melting  snow 
image  lavished  his  choicest  genius,  thinking  per- 
haps that  that  which  was  to  have  so  short  a  life, 
so  momentary  an  existence,  the  snow  melting  even 
as  he  moulded  it,  called  at  least  for  as  much  love 
as  his  creations  in  everlasting  marble. 

It  was  so  with  Luca,  till  at  last  he  had  too 
much  to  do,  Italy,  Europe,  requiring  more  from 
him   than   he   could   perform.     And   so  he  takes  to 


252  LUCA   BELLA    ROBBIA 

him  his  brothers  Ottaviano  and  Agostino,  and  more 
especially  his  nephew  Andrea,  taking  this  last  youth 
into  his  very  heart  too,  training  them  in  his  own 
new  invention,  the  glorious  work  in  the  humble 
material.  And  not  without  success,  at  least  with 
Andrea,  who  seems,  perhaps  from  the  fact  that 
Luca  did  take  him  into  his  heart,  to  have  caught 
at  times  the  very  spirit  of  the  master.  For  in 
Andrea's  work  we  catch  an  afterglow  at  least  of 
Luca,  and  sometimes  of  Luca  at  his  best. 

But  he  is  not  even  yet  satisfied  :  invention,  tire- 
less study  for  some  still  more  perfect  mode  of  self- 
expression,  was  a  kind  of  mania  with  him.  And 
at  last,  tired  out,  he  goes  to  Orleans,  to  France, 
to  his  brother  Girolamo,  who  had  succeeded  greatly 
in  that  country,  even,  as  Vasari  says,  "  acquiring 
high  reputation  and  great  riches."  After  the  labour 
and  heat  of  the  day  we  may  suppose  he  found 
rest  at  last,  though  but  for  a  little  time.  Soon 
after  his  arrival  in  France  he  seems  to  fade  almost 
to  a  shadow,  like  a  flower  of  his  own  Italy  trans- 
planted from  its  native  soil.  It  is  a  characteristic 
of  his  work.  It  will  not  bear  removal.  That  white 
and  blue  terra-cotta,  so  delicate,  so  cooling,  fades, 
too,  away  from  Italy.  It  is  only  really  satisfactory 
on  its  native  soil,  of  which,  after  all,  it  is  a  product. 

He  died  in  France  soon  after  his  arrival.  His 
friends  brought  his  body  back  to  Italy,  to  the 
tomb  of  his  fathers,  to  bury  him.  How  could  he 
rest,    he   who  was  made  of  her  earth  and  her  sky, 


LUCA   DELLA   ROBBIA  253 

away  from  Italy,  when  at  last  he  came  to  lay 
himself  down  ?  It  was  a  characteristic  of  him  that 
he  should  always  have  conceived  of  death  cheer- 
fully. Not  as  oblivion,  nor  even  as  sleep,  as  we 
have  seen  in  that  great  marble  tomb  he  made  for 
the  Bishop  of  Fiesole,  but  just  as  rest — a  rest  well 
earned,  as  though  even  yet,  perhaps — who  knows  ? 
— there  might  be  work  for  him  to  do, 


XV. 

FRA   LIPPO    LIPPI. 

THE  love  and  enthusiasm  for  antiquity  that 
colours  the  age  of  the  Renaissance  for  us, 
even  to  its  close,  was  in  reality  a  search  for  immor- 
tality. That  dread  of  death,  common  even  amongst 
ourselves,  in  the  very  young,  the  fear  of  entire  forget- 
fulness,  the  dread  of  nothingness,  was  the  soil  out 
of  which  sprung  the  beautiful  flower  we  call  the 
Renaissance.  And  instead  of  looking  forward  to  the 
future  for  that  gift  of  life  everlasting,  we  find  the 
Florentines  of  that  day  peering  longingly  back  at 
the  past,  certain  that  there  at  any  rate  was  a  sure 
immortality,  and  that  in  that  wonderful  culture  of 
antiquity,  divided  from  them  by  the  gulf  of  dark- 
ness called  the  Middle  Age,  there  was  the  secret  of 
eternity,  the  power  to  confer  upon  Art  a  something 
which  would  not  allow  it  to  be  utterly  forgotten.  It 
came  to  be  a  kind  of  creed,  of  almost  passionate  belief, 
that  to  be  a  scholar  was  the  surest  way  to  save  some- 
thing from  the  wreck  of  Time ;  that  learning  was  a 
salt  which  would  crystallise  their  work,  giving  it  an 


FRA    LIPPO    LIPPI  255 

endurance,  an  appeal  to  those  coming  after,  that 
otherwise  it  would  lack.  For  Art  in  those  early 
days  was  looked  upon  as  something  divine,  and  the 
artist  as  only  a  little  lower  than  the  angels,  perhaps 
a  true  son  of  God  in  whom  He  was  well  pleased.  An 
example  of  this  disposition  of  the  people  toward  the 
artist  may  be  noted  in  that  wonderful  reception — it  is 
almost  a  triumph — which  Cimabue  received  when  his 
Madonna  was  borne  in  procession  through  the  streets 
of  Florence  to  its  home  in  Santa  Maria  Novella. 
Even  the  Church  took  part  in  that  welcome,  as 
though  in  reality  Madonna  Mary  had  graciously 
come  to  them  and  they  had  found  her  a  home 
right  in  their  midst,  as  near  as  possible  to  their 
own  dwellings. 

In  this  age  of  extremes,  then,  we  shall  not  be 
surprised  to  find  great  loves  and  great  hates,  great 
virtue  and  great  vice :  it  was  an  age  of  enthusiasm, 
and  it  did  nothing  small.  When  Art  was  received 
with  so  much  reverence  even  by  the  people,  when 
its  power  to  move  them  seems  to  have  been  so  great, 
it  is  not  surprising  to  find  the  artist  passionate  in  his 
work,  and,  feeling  the  divine  spark  in  him,  seeking 
his  own  special  medium,  wherein  he  may  express 
himself. 

For  the  artist  to  find  the  medium  through  which 
he  may  express  himself  has  ever  been  the  great 
need,  coming  in  later  times,  indeed,  almost  to  be 
an  end  in  itself.  To  come  upon  it  early,  to  know 
that  one  is  doing  the  best  with  oneself  that  can  be 


256  FRA    LIPPO    LIPPI 

done,  is  the  prize  of  the  few,  and  they  generally  the 
greatest  of  all.  Most,  after  much  toil,  many  fruit- 
less pilgrimages,  many  inventions,  find  their  medium 
late,  perhaps  too  late,  and,  looking  back  on  the 
flowers  they  have  plucked  by  the  way,  are  content 
even  to  leave  their  own  true  work  undone,  thinking, 
after  all,  on  the  pleasantness  of  the  way  thither. 
But  there  are  left  those  who  never  find  it,  men 
sometimes  of  real  genius  or  exquisite  talent,  shown, 
it  is  true,  in  all  that  they  do,  but  lacking  the 
means  to  express  the  true  inspiration — the  very  soul 
of  the  artist.  It  is  of  such  an  one  I  have  tried  to 
write,  telling  you  in  the  simplest  way  I  could  of 
his  life  and  his  work.  He  was  a  great  painter; 
but  he  was  always  above  his  work,  always  with  the 
real  soul  left  over,  finding  at  last  its  true  expression 
not  in  his  own  work  nor  even  in  himself,  but  in 
the  work  of  his  most  famous  pupil.  His  own  genius 
would  find  a  voice,  if  not  in  a  noble  then  in  an 
ignoble  passion,  if  not  in  art  then  in  life.  It  is  in 
this  way,  and  because  of  his  failure,  or  even  failure 
to  grasp  the  secret  of  his  own  work,  that  his  name 
is  not  over  the  great  constellation  of  artists  that 
now  bears  that  of  another. 

About  the  year  1412  was  born  in  a  little  mediaeval 
street — called  Ardigotione — in  Florence,  Filippo  di 
Tommaso  Lippi,  called  Fra  Lippo  Lippi.  His 
mother,  poor  soul,  died  in  giving  him  life,  and  his 
father,  burdened  maybe  with  sorrow,  lived  only  till 
Lippo  was  two  years  old.     Frail  from  his  birth,  be- 


FRA   LIPPO    LIPPI  257 

ginning  life  without  a  mother's  unreplaceable  care, 
we  find  him  shortly  in  the  convent  of  the  Carmelites, 
just  outside  whose  walls  he  had  begun  his  life.  The 
monks  having  forsaken  fatherhood,  yet  yielding  to 
the  instinct  of  nature  towards  that  which  is  helpless, 
seem  to  have  taken  good  care  of  him,  bringing  him 
up  in  the  Offices  of  the  Church,  and  striving  to 
teach  a  mind  always  almost  unteachable.  For  we 
find  him  no  lover  of  books,  no  scholar,  but  a  dreamer 
of  dreams  in  bright  colours,  dexterous  and  ingenious 
with  his  hands,  so  long  as  his  thoughts  are  allowed  to 
wander  on  that  life-long  search  of  his.  And  so,  while 
still  very  young,  with  the  approval  of  the  wondering 
monks,  he,  almost  untaught,  paints  a  picture  in  terra 
verde  in  the  cloisters  of  their  convent,  a  picture  to 
please  his  fathers,  the  subject  being  a  Pope  confirm- 
ing the  Rule  of  the  Carmelites.  They  praised  him, 
for  did  they  not  love  him,  they  who  had  rescued 
him  from  death  almost  on  his  arrival  in  this  world 
of  which  they  knew  so  little  ?  And  so  at  the  age 
of  seventeen  he  thinks  he  wishes  to  be  a  painter,  and 
without  a  thought  throws  off  the  clerical  habit. 

He  was  ever  a  dreamer  of  dreams,  and  even  in  his 
own  time  his  dreams  came  to  be  a  part  of  his  actual 
life.  Legends,  stories  grew  up  regarding  him  that 
seem,  under  the  search-light  of  modern  criticism,  to 
have  had  but  little  reality.  It  is  said  he  was  oat  in 
a  boat  one  day,  thinking,  thinking,  when  he  was  made 
prisoner  suddenly  by  some  Moorish  pirates  and  taken 
a  captive  to  Barbary,  whence  he  returned  only  after 

R 


258  FRA   LIPPO    LIPPI 

eighteen  months,  when  they  discovered  he  could  draw, 
and,  so  the  legend  runs,  for  this  they  took  him  to  be 
a  god.  He  landed  at  Naples  on  his  return,  where  he 
painted  a  picture  for  King  Alfonso  which  was  placed 
in  the  private  chapel  of  the  king.  But  he  was  still 
undecided.  In  truth  all  this  legend  is  but  an  allegory 
of  his  life-long  search  for  his  own  medium.  Discon- 
tented, out  of  humour  with  his  art,  he  longed  for 
Florence,  and  at  length  indeed  returned  there,  and 
arrived,  painted  a  picture  for  the  nuns  of  Sant'  Am- 
brogio,  now  in  the  Academy  of  Fine  Arts  in  Florence. 

It  was  the  age  of  Lorenzo  Ghiberti  and  Donatello, 
the  age,  therefore,  of  the  great  schism  in  art  which 
has  lasted  ever  since  —  the  division  between  the 
Naturalists  and  the  Mystics.  How  to  choose  ?  It 
does  not  trouble  Fiiippo  for  an  instant :  he  who  had 
travelled  and  loved  the  world,  even  to  the  desertion 
of  that  quiet  cloistral  home,  is  a  Naturalist  already. 
His  angels,  even  in  the  work  he  has  already  done,  are 
just  boys,  not  angels  at  all  really,  yet  fulfilling  the 
requirements  of  even  the  most  exacting  devotee  in  a 
certain  humanism,  a  certain  delight  in  mere  living, 
the  sensuous  side  of  worship,  which  is  far  indeed 
from  coarseness,  and  farther  still  from  that  Middle 
Age  just  gone  by  for  ever — the  age  of  Asceticism. 

That  picture  of  his  in  Sant'  Ambrogio  made  him 
known  to  Cosimo  de'  Medici,  who  became  his  friend 
and  protector.  So  he  painted  a  picture  of  the 
Nativity  of  Christ  for  the  wife  of  Cosimo  de'  Medici, 
and  remembering  perhaps  the  circumstances  of  his 


FRA    LIPPO    LIPPI  259 

own  birth,  gives  an  unwonted  faintness — at  any  rate 
for  him — to  the  expression  of  the  Madonna :  a  wish, 
as  it  were,  not  to  live ;  a  desire  for  quiet,  as  though 
she  were  thinking  of  the  "  lowliness  of  His  hand- 
maiden." 

The  lust  of  the  eye,  the  desire  of  life,  the  power 
latent  in  all  art  to  enjoy  itself, — it  was  in  expressing 
these  that  Filippo  came  almost  to  believe  he  had 
found  his  medium,  and  when  engaged  in  the  feverish 
search,  he  has  time  for  nothing  else,  has  thoughts  for 
nothing  else.  Cosimo  de'  Medici  wishes  him  to  finish 
some  paintings  on  which  he  is  engaged  for  the  Palace, 
but  Lippo  is  up  and  down  Florence  with  no  thought 
for  work ;  that  terrible  desire  of  life  in  him  eating 
his  very  soul  away  in  its  hunger,  its  desire  to  be 
appeased.  So  Cosimo  shut  him  in— a  kindly  act,  at 
any  rate  he  thought  so — that  he  might  not  waste 
time  so  precious  to  Florence,  to  Italy,  perhaps  to  the 
world.  But  Lippo,  insatiable  of  life,  of  that  dear 
irresponsible  going  to  and  fro,  cannot  endure  confine- 
ment for  longer  than  two  days ;  so  making  a  rope  of 
the  sheets  of  the  bed,  he  slips  down  again  to  the  sun 
and  shade,  the  dust  and  the  bustle,  the  roses  and 
love  of  that  Florence  of  which  he  can  never  tire. 
Cosimo  is  disturbed,  distracted,  at  his  absence, 
terrified  for  his  safety,  and  on  his  return  at  last, 
seeing  that  Filippo  must  have  his  way,  promises  to 
shut  him  up  no  more,  endeavouring  ever  after  by 
kindness  alone  to  keep  him  at  work,  which  for  his 
own  sake  he  must— so  it  seems  to  Cosimo — finish. 


26o  FRA   LIPPO    LIPPI 

But  now  he  has  sent  work  to  Rome,  he  is  known 
in  Padua,  Cardinal  Barbo,  patron  of  the  Arts,  has 
commended  his  grace,  and  some  distant  relations  at 
length  hold  out  welcoming  arms  to  him  from  Prato. 
Thither  he  journeys,  staying  for  months  together 
with  Fra  Diamente,  a  friend  of  his  youth  from  the 
convent  at  Florence.  The  nuns  of  Santa  Margherita 
— he  seems  always  to  have  had  a  curious  fascination 
for  women — commission  him  to  paint  a  Madonna  for 
the  high  altar  of  their  church,  and  so  by  chance,  as  it 
were,  and  slow  stages,  as  he  would  have  thought,  he 
comes  to  what  must  have  been  the  crisis  of  his  life 
— the  desire  of  life,  the  lust  of  the  eye,  triumphing 
completely  at  last 

In  the  cool  church  on  sunny  mornings,  or  perhaps 
in  aimless  wanderings,  still  in  search  of  that  which 
ever  evades  him,  he  has  seen  Lucrezia  Buti,  a  nun 
of  a  curious  fascinating  beauty  that  holds  him  as 
in  a  vice.  And  Naturalist  as  he  is,  with  no  thought 
beyond,  behind  his  picture,  he  begs  her  as  model  for 
his  Madonna*  Persuasive,  eloquent,  graceful,  he  is 
not  denied.  He  paints  her,  and  while  at  work  sud- 
denly finds  himself,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  per- 
haps, really  in  love.  From  desire  to  accomplishment 
was  a  matter  of  mere  wishing  in  most  things  with 
Filippo.  We  see  that,  in  the  ease  with  which  he 
accomplished  that  earliest  picture  for  the  Carmelites 
in  Florence,  almost  without  any  teaching.  Lucrezia 
is  easily  persuaded,  and  on  a  certain  day  when  they 
had  gone  forth  to  do  honour  to  a  relic — the  girdle 


FRA    LIPPO    LIPPI  261 

presented  to  St  Thomas  by  our  Lady — he  bears  her 
from  their  keeping.  Disgrace  falls  where  it  is  ill 
deserved,  on  the  Nuns  of  Santa  Margherita,  and 
the  father  of  Lucrezia,  justly  angry  at  the  seduc- 
tion of  his  daughter,  in  vain  makes  every  effort  to 
recover  her,  and  in  the  end  is  supposed  to  have 
caused  Lippo's  death  by  poison.  It  was  the  outcome 
of  this  romantic  union,  their  only  son,  Filippino 
Lippi,  who  carried  on  the  tradition  of  his  father's 
work,  becoming,  though  in  a  somewhat  different 
style,  "a  most  excellent  and  famous  painter,"  as 
Vasari  says.  Poor  as  he  always  had  been  and  was, 
theirs  must  have  been  a  curious  existence.  Out- 
lawed, at  any  rate  for  a  time,  by  the  Church,  with 
no  friend  but  Cosimo  de'  Medici,  Filippo  needed  then 
all  that  Lucrezia  could  give  of  love  and  sympathy  in 
order  to  justify  even  to  himself  the  wild  act  he  had 
been  so  certain  would  mean  happiness. 

Pictures  of  his  about  this  period  are  not  rare ;  for 
Cosimo  seems  to  have  exercised  his  influence  and 
arranged  matters  with  the  Church.  So  we  find  him 
painting  in  the  Augustine  church  of  Santo  Spirito  in 
Florence ;  and  in  Prato,  too,  in  the  church  of  San 
Domenico  there  still  remains  a  Nativity  by  him. 
His  drapery  is  always  fine,  and  his  monks  are  full  of 
some  true  spirit  of  devotion  that  is  wanting  in  many 
a  greater  master.  But  it  is  in  his  Bambini  and  in 
his  boy  angels  that,  in  so  far  as  he  found  expression 
in  painting,  he  expresses  himself.  They  are  above 
all  else  natural,  boisterous  children  from  the  streets 


202  FRA   LIPPO    LIPPI 

of  Florence,  with  something  humorous  in  the  bent 
heads,  and  lips  that  should  be  murmuring  Aves.  In 
his  picture  of  the  Martyrdom  of  St  Stephen  he  has 
depicted  brutal  fury  and  lust  for  blood  with  an  ex- 
traordinary power.  Always  vivid,  there  is  some- 
thing demoniac  in  the  cruelty,  the  grinding  teeth, 
and  stretched  lips  of  the  mob  that  stones  the  Saint. 
His  Madonnas  seem  to  me  to  be  only  half  realised. 
It  was  a  later  hand  that  found  expression  for  all  that 
Filippo  had  dreamed ;  for  among  his  pupils  we  find 
him  who  was  to  supplant  him,  to  say  all  or  nearly 
all  that  Filippo  has  said  and  much  more  that  Filippo 
had  never  dreamed  of.     I  mean  Sandro  Botticelli. 

Sandro  was  his  pupil,  and  certainly  no  small  meas- 
ure of  Filippo's  unexpressed  genius  fell  to  his  share. 
But  Botticelli  was  a  man  who  needed  no  helping 
introductions,  a  man  well  able  to  stand  alone.  Still 
I  think  we  can  trace  Lippo's  influence  in  some  of 
Botticelli's  early  work,  and  especially  in  the  hair  and 
heads  of  his  Madonnas.  Fra  Filippo  died  in  his 
fifty-eighth  year,  in  the  year  1469. 

To  Fra  Diamente,  with  whom  he  had  taken  that 
eventful  journey  to  Prato,  he  left  his  only  son  Filip- 
pino,  then  ten  years  old.  And  in  due  time  Filippino 
goes  to  school  to  Sandro  Botticelli,  and  when  he  is 
older  learns  from  those  careful  lips  the  life  of  his 
father. 

So  died  Filippo  the  painter,  a  man  of  immense 
genius,  wandering  through  this  world  trying  to  find 
the  medium  through  which  to  express  himself.     He 


FRA    LIPPO    LIPPI  263 

never  succeeded,  and  he  died  greater  than  his  work. 
Some  compensation  for  a  life  set  with  pitfalls  and 
sorrow  from  birth,  we  may  believe  he  found,  some 
truth  after  all,  perhaps,  though  meagre  at  best,  in 
the  old  proverb,  "  Let  us  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry, 
for  to-morrow  we  die."  A  Naturalist  by  inspiration 
and  conviction,  a  dreamer,  a  poet,  in  a  way  that  is 
not  elaborately  artistic  but  close  to  life,  he  was  not 
one  of  the  greatest  painters,  but  a  great  artist.  A 
man  of  curious  fascination,  a  man  of  his  own  time ; 
for  out  of  that  age  of  enthusiasm,  of  extremes,  there 
would  have  been  no  place  for  Lippo  Lippi.  Lucky 
in  this,  that  he  did  not  die  without  having  known 
what  life  meant,  what  love  meant,  in  the  search  for 
which  we  are  all  so  much  in  earnest. 


XVI. 

AT    BOLOGNA. 

N"  EVER  one  of  the  more  beautiful  cities  of  Italy, 
Bologna  is  nevertheless  a  place  of  some  inter- 
est, chiefly  because  of  its  school  of  painting.  But 
at  first  sight  what  strikes  the  traveller  as  most  char- 
acteristic is  the  arcades,  that  give  to  this  old-world 
city  a  curious  individuality.  There  are  indeed  really 
miles  of  them,  so  that  it  is  said  to  be  possible  to 
pass  through  the  whole  city  under  cover. 

It  is,  however,  rather  as  the  city  of  curious  leaning 
towers  than  as  the  city  of  arcades  that  Bologna  event- 
ually appears  to  us,  with  a  kind  of  sombreness  in  her 
aspect  that,  it  may  be,  prevents  her  being  overmuch 
loved  especially  by  the  traveller.  But  at  last,  when 
the  mere  curiosity  for  something  strange  has  ex- 
hausted itself  upon  the  leaning  towers,  Bologna 
remains  memorable  to  us  as  the  home  of  a  very  re- 
markable school  of  painting,  and  as  the  birthplace  of 
the  goldsmith  and  painter  Francesco  Francia.  Born 
here  in  1450,  Francia  appears  to  have  been  the  son 
of  humble  parents  who  apprenticed  him  to  a  gold- 


FRANCESCO    FRANCIA  265 

smith  in  the  city.  Vasari  says  of  him,  "  His  manner 
and  conversation  were  so  gentle  and  obliging,  that 
he  kept  all  around  him  in  good  humour,  and  had  the 
gift  of  dissipating  the  heavy  thoughts  of  the  most 
melancholy  by  the  charms  of  his  conversation :  for 
these  reasons  he  was  not  only  beloved  by  all  who 
were  acquainted  with  him,  but  in  course  of  time  he 
obtained  the  favour  of  many  princes  and  nobles, 
Italian  and  others."  Having  applied  himself  to  the 
study  of  design,  "  the  desire  for  greater  things 
awakened  within  him,"  the  result  of  which  is  visible 
to  us  to-day  in  San  Giacomo  Maggiore  and  in  the 
Accademia. 

According  to  Vasari,  Francia  took  great  delight  in 
the  casting  of  medals:  "his  works,"  says  that  irre- 
sistible biographer,  "  are  most  admirable,  as  may  be 
judged  from  some  on  which  is  the  head  of  Pope 
Julius  II.  so  lifelike  that  these  medals  will  bear  com- 
parison with  those  of  Carradosso,"  the  famous  cutter 
of  dies  of  Pavia.  And  so  a  large  part  of  Francia's 
life  was  passed  as  director  of  the  Mint  of  Bologna. 
Giovanni  Bentivoglio,  who  was  tyrant  there  in  1490, 
employing  him  not  alone  as  a  cutter  of  dies  but  as 
a  painter  too,  as  may  be  seen  in  the  chapel  of  the 
Bentivogli  in  San  Giacomo  Maggiore,  where  Francia 
painted  the  lovely  altar-piece,  one  of  his  most  perfect 
works,  of  the  Madonna  and  Child  with  angels,  and 
SS.  Florian,  Augustine,  John  the  Evangelist,  and 
Sebastian,  which  he  signed  Franciscus  Francia, 
Aurifex,  "as  though  he  wished  to  imply  that  he  be- 


266  BOLOGNA 

longed  to  the  goldsmith's  art,  not  to  that  of  painting." 
And  perhaps  in  a  way  he  did  not  mean,  this  is  gold- 
smith's work  indeed  in  its  perfection,  and  because  of 
a  certain  golden  light  that  seems  to  burst  from  the 
picture.  The  figure  of  St  Sebastian  is,  I  think,  among 
all  his  work  perhaps  the  grandest  figure  he  ever 
painted. 

There  are  no  less  than  nine  of  Francia's  works  in 
the  Accademia.  One  of  these,  a  Nativity,  is  especi- 
ally delightful  in  that  it  contains  the  portrait  of 
Signor  Antonio  Galeazzo  Bentivoglio  and  of  the 
poet  Girolamo  Pandolfi  di  Cario.  Vasari  declares 
the  portrait  of  Monsignore  de'  Bentivoglio  to  be  an 
excellent  likeness  :  "  he  wears  the  dress  of  a  pilgrim, 
in  the  which  he  returned  from  Jerusalem."  The 
figure  in  the  background  with  folded  hands  is  gener- 
ally supposed  to  be  Bentivoglio,  though  from  Vasari's 
description  one  might  suppose  the  figure  in  the  fore- 
ground to  the  left,  with  the  pilgrim's  staff  in  his  hand, 
to  be  Monsignore. 

Having  thus  proved  himself  a  master  in  oil,  he 
determined  to  see  if  he  could  not  succeed  equally 
well  in  fresco.  He  accomplished  his  desire  on  the 
walls  of  the  Palazzo  Bentivoglio,  which,  however, 
was  destroyed  by  order  of  Pope  Julius  II. ;  but  we 
may  see  to-day  in  the  chapel  of  St  Cecilia,  attached 
to  the  church  of  San  Giacomo  Maggiore,  Francia's 
frescoes  of  The  Marriage  of  Cecilia  and  Valerian 
and  The  Burial  of  Cecilia  —  the  rest  of  the  work 
here  being  that  of  his  pupils.      These  frescoes  are 


FRANCESCO    FRANCIA  267 

among  his  noblest  works,  —  their  simplicity  and 
beauty  and  grace  enchanting  us  from  the  begin- 
ning in  spite  of  the  ruin  that  is  overtaking  them. 
From  this  time  Francia  seems  to  have  had  more 
work  than  he  could  possibly  perform,  and  doubtless  a 
number  of  paintings  passing  under  his  name  are  really 
the  work  of  his  pupils.  He  appears  still  to  have  con- 
tinued his  work  in  metal — his  die-cutting  ;  although 
the  exile  of  the  Bentivoglio  family  seems  to  have 
caused  him  sorrow,  his  fame  suffered  nothing,  Many 
of  his  works,  like  those  he  executed  for  the  Duke  of 
Urbino,  were  utterly  lost.  Vasari  continues  :  "  While 
Francia  was  then  living  in  so  much  glory  and  was 
peacefully  enjoying  the  fruits  of  his  labours,  Raphael 
was  working  in  Rome,  where  there  daily  flocked 
around  him  numerous  foreigners  from  various  parts, 
and  among  them  many  gentlemen  of  Bologna  anxious 
to  see  the  works  of  that  master,  and  as  it  most 
commonly  happens  that  every  one  is  ready  to  extol 
the  distinguished  persons  of  his  native  place,  so  these 
Bolognese  began  to  entertain  Raphael  with  praises 
of  the  life  and  works  and  genius  of  Francia  until  so 
much  friendship  was  established  between  those  two 
masters  by  means  of  words  that  they  saluted  each 
other  by  letter."  Mrs  Foster  in  her  edition  of 
Vasari  appends  one  of  these  letters,  as  follows  : — 

My  dear  Messer  Francesco, — I  have  this  moment  re- 
ceived your  portrait,  which  has  been  brought  to  me  safely 
and  without  having  suffered  any  injury  whatever  by  Bazotto. 
I  thank  you  heartily  for  it ;  it  is  singularly  beautiful,  and  so 


n 


68  BOLOGNA 


life-like  that  I  sometimes  fancy  myself  to  be  near  you,  listen- 
ing to  your  words.  I  beg  you  to  have  patience  with  me  and 
to  excuse  the  long  delay  of  mine  which  perpetual  and  weighty 
occupations  have  prevented  me  from  executing  with  my  own 
hand,  as  we  agreed,  and  I  did  not  think  it  becoming  to  per- 
mit that  it  should  be  done  by  my  scholars  and  only  re- 
touched by  myself.  On  the  contrary,  it  will  be  proper  that 
all  shall  be  able  to  perceive  how  little  my  work  is  capable  of 
comparing  with  your  own.  I  beg  that  you  will  grant  me  your 
friendly  indulgence  ;  you  may  yourself  have  experienced  what 
it  is  to  be  deprived  of  one's  freedom  and  to  be  obliged  to 
live  in  the  service  of  nobles.  Meanwhile  I  send  you,  through 
the  same  person,  who  returns  in  about  six  days,  another 
drawing,  that  of  the  Prsesepio,  already  known  to  you,  but 
very  different,  as  you  will  see,  from  the  picture  which  you 
have  honoured  with  so  much  praise.  And  this,  I  constantly 
hear,  you  are  pleased  to  bestow  on  my  attempts,  insomuch 
that  I  must  blush  for  myself,  as  indeed  I  may  well  do,  with 
respect  to  the  trifle  I  now  send  you,  but  you  must  accept  it 
as  a  token  of  my  respect  and  affection  rather  than  for  any 
other  cause.  If  I,  on  my  part,  might  possess  your  story  of 
Judith,  I  should  certainly  treasure  it  among  my  most  valued 
and  dearest  possessions.  The  Honourable  Signor  Dartany 
is  awaiting  his  little  Madonna  with  great  desire,  as  is  Car- 
dinal Riario  his  larger  one ;  of  all  which  Bazotto  will  inform 
you  more  minutely.  I  shall  myself  see  them  with  all  the 
pleasure  and  satisfaction  with  which  I  always  see  and  recom- 
mend your  works,  than  which  I  find  none  more  beautiful  or 
executed  better.  Continue  to  hold  me  in  affection,  as  I  hold 
you  with  my  whole  heart ;  being  ever  bound  to  your  service, 
and  truly  your  own  Raffaele  Sanzio. 

Francia,   now  an  old  man,  greatly  desired  to  see 
Raphael's  works,  and  by  a  piece  of  the  good  fortune 


FRANCESCO    FRANCIA  269 

that  seems  to  have  followed  him  all  his  days,  a  pic- 
ture— the  St  Cecilia,  now  in  the  Accademia — came  to 
Bologna  for  a  chapel  in  San  Giovanni  in  Monte, 
Raphael,  by  way  of  compliment,  addressing  it  to  the 
care  of  Francia  himself;  and,  his  legend  continues, 
when  he  saw  at  last  the  very  work  of  the  divine 
Raphael,  he  perceived  "  his  error  and  the  foolish  pre- 
sumption with  which  he  had  weakly  believed  in  his 
own  superiority.  .  .  .  He  was  utterly  confounded,  but 
nevertheless  caused  the  painting  to  be  placed  with  all 
care  and  diligence  in  the  chapel  for  which  it  was  in- 
tended in  the  church  of  San  Giovanni  in  Monte ;  but 
having  become  like  a  man  beside  himself,  he  took  to 
his  bed  a  few  days  after,  appearing  to  himself  to  be 
almost  as  nothing  in  art  when  compared  with  what 
he  had  believed  himself  and  what  he  had  always  been 
considered.  Thus  he  died,  many  believe,  of  grief,  .  .  . 
in  1528,  receiving  honourable  interment  from  his  sons 
in  Bologna."  Almost  the  whole  of  this  story  has  been 
questioned,  however,  and  it  is  even  asserted  that 
Francia  had  for  a  long  time  previous  to  his  death 
been  well  acquainted  with  Raphael's  work. 

Beyond  anything  in  Bologna  the  genius  of  Francia 
haunts  the  traveller,  constraining  him,  perhaps  almost 
against  his  will,  to  love  this  curious  city  of  colonnades 
and  leaning  towers,  restful  enough  now  after  its  fierce 
and  angry  youth.  It  stands  like  a  kind  of  uncouth 
Hermes,  where  three  nations  meet,  almost  unnoticed 
in  the  shade  of  its  cloistered  streets. 


XVIL 

A  NOTE  ON   RAVENNA. 

AFTER  all,  when  the  unique  historical  value  of 
Ravenna  is  forgotten  or  ignored  for  a  time 
by  the  traveller,  it  is  always  as  the  city  of  pine 
woods  she  is  remembered,  set  in  the  solitude  not  far 
from  the  sea -shore.  Yet  it  is  only  when  some 
sense  of  her  history  remains  in  the  mind,  to  colour 
the  natural  beauty  and  perfection  of  her  unique  and 
solitary  loveliness,  that  even  her  pine  woods  can  be 
rightly  loved,  and  their  secrets  become  a  possession 
of  the  traveller  who  passes  by. 

Not  only,  at  least  for  the  sentimental,  as  the  city 
of  Dante  is  she  known,  proud  Ravenna  by  the  eastern 
sea,  but  as  the  city  beloved  by  Byron,  the  home  ot 
"the  Guiccioli." 

I  have  been  here  [he  writes,  June  29,  1819]  these  four 
weeks,  having  left  Venice  a  month  ago.  I  came  to  see  my 
"Arnica,"  the  Countess  Guiccioli,  who  has  been,  and  still 
continues,  very  unwell.  .  .  .  She  is  only  in  her  seventeenth, 
but  not  of  a  strong  constitution.  She  has  a  perpetual 
cough  and  intermittent  fever,  but  bears  up  most  gallantly  in 


BYRON  271 

every  sense  of  the  word.  Her  husband  (this  is  his  third 
wife)  is  the  richest  noble  in  Ravenna  and  almost  of  Romagna ; 
he  is  also  not  the  youngest,  being  upwards  of  three-score,  but 
in  good  preservation.  All  this  will  appear  strange  to  you 
who  do  not  understand  the  meridian  morality  nor  our  way  of 
life.  ...  I  have  my  horses  here,  saddle  as  well  as  carriage, 
and  ride  and  drive  every  day  in  the  forest,  the  Pineta,  the 
scene  of  Boccaccio's  novel  and  Dryden's  fable  of  Honoria, 
etc. ;  and  I  see  my  Dama  every  day.   .  .  . 

And  these  woods,  through  which  the  sea-wind 
whispers,  somewhat  sadly  one  may  think,  of  the 
innumerable  centuries  that  have  watched  the  splend- 
our and  the  ruin  of  this  city,  are  full  of  song,  for  the 
sea  with  its  never-changing  music  is  never  far  away 
from  the  thoughts  of  him  who  wanders  over  the 
plains  of  that  Ravenna  which  was  a  naval  station 
of  Csesar  Augustus. 

As  John  Addington  Symonds  seems  to  suggest, 
the  proper  companion  during  a  stay  in  Ravenna  is 
Dante's  "  Purgatorio,"  Canto  xxviii. : — 

"  Through  the  celestial  forest,  whose  thick  shade 
With  lively  greenness  the  new  springing  day 
Attempered,  eager  now  to  roam  and  search 
Its  limits  round,  forthwith  I  left  the  bank, 
Along  the  champain  leisurely  my  way 
Pursuing,  o'er  the  ground,  that  on  all  sides 
Delicious  odour  breathed.     A  pleasant  air 
That  intermitted  never,  never  veered, 
Smote  on  my  temples,  gently  as  a  wind 
Of  softest  influence  :  at  which  the  sprays, 
Obedient  all,  lean'd  trembling  to  that  part 
Where  first  the  holy  mountain  casts  his  shade  ; 


272  RAVENNA 

Yet  were  not  so  discovered,  but  that  still 
Upon  their  top  the  feathered  choristers 
Applied  their  wonted  art,  and  with  full  joy 
Welcomed  those  hours  of  prime  and  warbled  shrill 
Amid  the  leaves,  that  to  their  jocund  lays 
Kept  tenour ;  even  as  from  branch  to  branch 
Along  the  piny  forests  on  the  shore 
Of  Chiassi,  rolls  the  gathering  melody 
When  Eolus  hath  from  his  cavern  loosed 
The  dripping  south." 

The  mystical  figure  of  Dante  is,  indeed,  never  far 
from  the  mind  in  this  the  city  where  he  died.  It  is 
chiefly  as  a  place  full  of  the  memories  of  the  unforget- 
able  dead  that  Ravenna  is  dear  to  us  to-day.  One  is 
perhaps  a  little  overwhelmed  on  arrival  when  turning 
to  the  necessary  guide-book  to  find  it  crammed  with 
nothing  but  inhuman  learning.  It  is  curious  how 
profoundly  lacking  in  charm  Baedeker  can  be  in 
Italy,  since  he  seemed  to  promise  such  romance  in 
the  library  at  home !  Valuable  as  it  may  be  to  the 
traveller  to  realise  for  himself  the  Ravenna  and  Classis 
of  Roman  times,  the  siege  of  the  city  by  the  Ostro- 
goths under  Theodoric  their  king,  the  gift  of  the 
place  by  Charlemagne  to  the  Holy  See, — it  is  of  none 
of  these  things  that  one  traveller  at  least  is  content 
to  think  in  a  place  so  passionate  and  so  austere,  but 
of  Dante  dreaming  of  far-off  Florence  by  the  sea- 
shore, and  of  Boccaccio's  beautiful  tale,  and  of 
Byron's  passion  for  Countess  Guiccioli.  To  me,  at 
least,  of  all  places  in  the  world  Ravenna  is  the  least 
like  a  museum.  Yet  the  guide-books  of  every  shade 
of  red  would  make  of  her  one  of  the  chief  museums  of 


DANTE  273 

Italy.  To  me  she  is  a  dream,  a  vision  seen  through 
a  grey-blue  air  over  a  passionate  sea  by  the  light  of 
a  few  stars  and  the  summer  night.  Herself  a  dead 
and  cindered  passion,  one  may  sometimes  imagine 
her  as  she  was  in  her  splendour.  Among  all  her  mag- 
nificent treasures — the  mausoleum  of  Galla  Placida, 
the  tomb  of  Dante,  the  baptistery,  the  chapel  of  the 
Arcivescovado,  the  church  of  San  Apollinare  Nuovo, 
the  palace  and  tomb  of  Theodoric,  and  the  church 
of  San  Apollinare  in  Classe,  —  she  is  herself  more 
precious  than  they  all,  forgotten  utterly  by  the  world, 
still  roaming  in  her  marvellous  Pineta  in  which  she 
has  perhaps  lost  her  way. 


XVIIL 

AT   VENICE. 

TIKE  a  vast  precious  stone  sinking  into  the  mud 
-■— *  and  ooze  of  her  lagoons  Venice  is  to  -  day 
vanishing  from  our  earth  in  the  sea  distance  and 
her  lapsing  tides.  Glorified  by  our  dreams  and  her 
smouldering  tragic  sunsets  she  is  gradually  disap- 
pearing beyond  the  remotest  of  horizons.  She,  too, 
like  the  lovely  nude  courtesans  of  her  greatest 
painters,  seems  to  shine  with  a  rich  glow  of  her 
own,  and  "  almost  to  illumine  the  sky  rather  than 
to  receive  light  from  it."  Through  her  marvellous 
and  dying  streets  the  wet  sea-wind  passes  with  the 
same  immortal  melody  that  Wagner  caught  in  the 
herdsman's  tune,  played  on  a  pipe  before  the  castle 
on  the  rocky  height  from  which  are  seen  the  wide 
and  sad  horizons  of  the  sea  in  the  third  act  of 
"Tristan  und  Isolde,"  and  on  the  walls  of  her  mould- 
ering palaces  is  deposited  the  salt  gathered  by  the 
wind  over  many  miles  of  water  glistening  in  the 
silence  and  the  sun.  Perhaps  Venice  may  stand  for 
the  tragedy  of  our  modern  world.     She  is  dying  so 


. 


1   r 


w; 


_ 
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"NON    SUM    QUALIS    ERAM  "  275 

slowly  under  the  glittering  indifferent  stars.    Through 
her   streets   rush   the    penny   steamers,   like    horrible 
bacilli  in  the  veins  of  one  dying  of  a  dreadful  fever. 
They  care  nothing  for  her  beauty,   and  are  perhaps 
unconscious  that  they  are  destroying  her,  being  occu- 
pied  with  their  own   thoughts,  their   own   little  life. 
Within  her  palaces,   innumerable  and  splendid,  the 
canvases  that  reflect  her  ancient  beauty  and  magnif- 
icence decay  too  and  fade  under  the  glances  of  the 
vulgar  and  foolish  tourist.      For  how  long  has  she 
asked   in  vain  who  will   defend   Beauty,  Beauty  dis- 
tressed now  as  never  before,   despised  and  rejected 
by  the  vulgar  and  barbarous  century  that   has  been 
captured  by  lust  of  gold  and  sensuality  and  ugliness  ? 
I  at  least  have  no  words  to  express  my  contempt,  my 
hatred,  and  my  despair  of  a  world  that  has  destroyed 
so  fair  a  thing.     I  hate  how  bitterly,  how  ineffectually 
these  bestial  multitudes  that  without  understanding 
or   knowledge   are   trampling   Beauty  down   beneath 
their  million  hoofs.     Ah,  how  shall  I  tell,  without  an 
emotion  that  in  a  despicable  vile  world  of  mechanics 
will  seem  ridiculous,  all  my  loathing,  all  my  horror ! 
O   Demos,   King  of  kings,   Lord  of  lords,  the  only 
Ruler  of  princes,   thou  who    hast   in   thy  turn   con- 
quered,  thou   also  in   thy   turn  shalt   die,   despicably 
die  at  last,  and  men  shall  laugh  together  and  be  glad. 
Humanity,  once  the  mistress  of  poets,  philosophers, 
and  heroes,  is  now  its   own  "pimp  and  pander,  its 
own  adorer  and  assassin."     It,  too,  has  sinned  more 
vilely  than  the  most  contemptible  of  devils.      Like 


276  VENICE 

an  immense  flock  of  sheep  afflicted  with  fly,  unclean, 
diseased,  filthy,  and  abominable,  humanity  follows, 
whither  it  knows  not,  stamping  underfoot  the  glory 
and  the  beauty  and  the  loveliness  of  our  world. 
Ah  !  he  that  goeth  about  to  persuade  a  multitude 
that  it  is  never  more  to  be  despised  shall  never 
want  for  laughter.  But  this  at  least  is  within  my 
power,  this  at  least  is  part  of  my  office,  to  defend 
my  dream.  Though  the  Great  Beast  swallow  me  up 
quite,  ever  and  ever  I  will  hate  it.  I  will  laugh  in 
its  eyes,  and  smite  it  in  the  face,  though  still  un- 
consciously it  destroy  me.  Not  less  for  the  fear  I 
have  of  its  triumph,  but  rather  to  the  utmost  be- 
cause of  it,  I  will  defend  my  vision,  the  beauty  it 
has  never  seen,  the  thought  it  has  never  been  able 
to  comprehend,  the  freedom  and  the  ancient  order, 
and  the  virtue  that  can  never  utterly  pass  away,  in 
spite  of  the  drunken  assaults  of  the  slaves  and  fools 
of  King  Demos,  the  greed  of  the  tradesmen,  the 
cheating  of  the  grocers,  the  savagery  of  the  me- 
chanics, the  bestiality  of  the  Great  Beast.  In  all 
the  boasting  parliaments  of  earth  they  proclaim 
Demos  king  and  greet  him  with  the  funeral  saluta- 
tion, O  king,  live  for  ever! — already  his  body  that 
is  but  reprieved  from  death,  condemned  and  un- 
clean, stinks  of  the  inevitable  worm.  We  shall 
return  :  be  of  good  cheer,  Beauty  has  but  turned 
from  us  for  a  moment  to  look  into  the  face  of  God. 
She  alone  is  immortal,  calm,  and  composed,  while 
Humanity  in  abject  terror  stutters  to  the  grave.     In 


HE  LAS!  277 

spite  of  hideous  wrongs,  in  spite  of  the  awful  whines 
and  groans  of  the  children  of  the  Great  Beast,  who 
never  having  seen  the  sun  fear  to  die,  in  spite  of 
the  most  terrible  sins  and  destruction  and  cruelty 
and  murder,  we  must  never  despair.  Though  but 
few  in  number,  it  is  we  who  possess  the  mastery  in 
the  end — we  the  poets,  the  artists,  the  soldiers  of 
Beauty.  We  will  pierce  the  Great  Beast  with 
spears  of  ridicule  and  satire,  we  will  crush  him 
with  the  majesty  of  the  syllables  of  our  mother 
tongue  —  we  will  overwhelm  him  with  legions  of 
beautiful  words.  His  slaves  we  will  disperse  with 
the  whips  of  our  scorn  and  wit,  for  when  they  see 
the  terrible  and  beautiful  banners  of  our  Lady  they 
will  falter  and  be  afraid  and  beseech  of  us  our 
tyranny.  But  in  that  day  may  God  forget  that 
He  is  Love,  may  our  Lady  forget  her  Mercy.  O 
Poets,  in  this  our  night  forget  not  your  office ; 
defend  the  vision  you  have  seen,  the  thought  that 
is  immaculate  in  your  souls ! 

Thus  shall  we  avenge  Venice  upon  her  destroyers, 
and  preserve  at  least  the  suggestion  of  that  beauty 
which  was  once  named  Venezia. 

"  Does  it  not  strike  you,"  says  Perdita,  seated  in 
her  gondola,  to  her  lover,  one  September  evening 
in  Venice,  in  D'Annunzio's  latest  romance — "  Does 
it  not  strike  you  that  we  seem  to  be  following  the 
princely  retinue  of  dead  Summer  ?  There  she  lies 
sleeping  in  her  funeral  boat  all  dressed  in  gold,  like 
the  wife  of  a  Doge,  like  a  Loredana  or  a  Morosina, 


278  VENICE 

or  a  Soranza  of  the  enlightened  centuries ;  and  the 
procession  is  taking  her  to  the  island  of  Murano, 
where  some  masterly  lord  of  fire  will  make  her  a 
crystal  coffin,  and  the  walls  of  the  coffin  shall  be  of 
opal,  so  that  when  once  submerged  in  the  Laguna 
she  may  at  least  see  the  languid  play  of  the  sea- 
weed through  her  transparent  eyelids,  and  while 
awaiting  the  hour  of  resurrection  give  herself  the 
illusion  of  having  still  about  her  person  the  con- 
stant undulation  of  her  hair."  Something  of  this 
voluptuous  dreaminess  remains  with  Venice  to-day 
in  spite  of  all.  She  still  has  gold  upon  her  gar- 
ments. On  the  very  first  morning  as  one  gazes  out 
over  the  still  waters,  San  Giorgio  rises  before  one 
like  a  rosy  lily,  its  mighty  bell-tower  tipped  with  a 
golden  angel.  One's  first  impression  indeed  is  one 
of  rosiness,  as  though  some  indefinite  rosy  light 
shone  through  everything  here. 

As  one  wanders  about  Venice  to-day  so  quietly  in  a 
sombre  gondola,  watching  hert  throned  there  on  her 
piles,  sink  into  the  mud,  one  seems  to  be  witnessing 
some  magnificent  tragedy.  As  evening  is  shrouded 
by  night  the  singers  in  their  fantastic  barges  greet 
one  over  the  mysterious  waters  with  the  music  of 
mandolin  and  guitar  and  warm  Italian  voices.  Life, 
like  some  fantastic  play,  seems  to  drift  by  one  as  in 
a  dream.  To  be  attentive  to-  every  sound  and  sight, 
just  that,  it  is  sufficient.  One  is  almost  impatient 
of  Mr  Ruskin,  who  would  appear  to  have  exhausted 
Venice,  and  yet  missed  her  most  important  secrets. 


SAN    MARCO  279 

For  it  is  here  in  the  most  tourist-ridden  city  in  Italy 
that  one  can  best  perceive  the  glory  of  those  things 
which  have  been,  without  effort,  adrift  in  a  gondola 
watching  the  reflections  in  the  waters.  St  Mark's, 
of  which  even  the  most  insular  must  have  heard  so 
much,  never  becomes  quite  real  to  us,  is  always  more 
or  less  an  insubstantial  vision.  One  wanders  up  and 
down  the  lofty  galleries  among  the  innumerable 
figures  of  the  mosaics,  under  the  blessed  uplifted 
hands  of  the  Virgin  or  the  large  overshadowing 
wings  of  an  archangel  "  an  hundred  cubits  high," 
almost  as  we  might  wander  in  heaven  among  saints 
and  angels,  with  whom,  after  all,  we  have  very  little 
in  common. 

San  Marco  is,  indeed,  less  like  a  church  than  we 
had  perhaps  expected.  The  place,  as  has  been  well 
said,  is  like  to  the  sea  upon  which  it  is  built,  uneven 
or  rising  in  little,  little  waves.  The  other  churches 
tell  us  almost  nothing  but  that  we  are  in  what  was 
once  a  splendid  and  magnificent  city.  Perhaps  Santa 
Maria  della  Salute  is  the  most  romantic,  standing 
as  she  does  at  the  gate,  that  all  going  in  or  passing 
out  may  adore  her.  It  is  only  after  many  days  that 
the  picture-gallery  contains  anything  for  us  but  other 
splendid  spaces  of  colour,  less  magnificently  voluptu- 
ous than  are  to  be  found  everywhere  in  the  city 
herself.  Gradually  her  waterways,  perhaps,  become 
less  romantic  and  more  real — one  has  time  to  think 
a  little,  one's  emotion  is  less  ready.  It  is  at  this 
moment  that    we    perceive   the   marvellous   richness 


28o  VENICE 

of  her  museums  and  her  details.      On  getting  into 
a  gondola  one  desires  to  go  somewhere,  one  is  no 
longer  content  to  drift.     Then  is  the  time  to  depart 
or  to  remain  for  ever.     Once  immersed  in  her  history 
and  her  art,  the  story  of  her  valour  and  her  merchand- 
ise, the  visible  splendour  of  her  visions,  the  profound 
temperance  of  her  religion,  the  wisdom  of  her  govern- 
ment,  the  abyss  of  her  corruption,  the  traveller  is 
doomed  to  love  her  and  never  to  leave  her.    One  begins 
to  watch  the  tourists  in  companies  or  couples  seeking 
out    her   loveliness   or   her   renown,  always  in  vain. 
One  begins  to  understand  that  the  end  of  one's  own 
passion  for  her  must  be  despair.     Day  by  day,  little 
by  little,  she  sinks  into  mud.     Even  the  smoke  of  the 
steamers  is  beginning  to  stain  her  stainless  marbles. 
The  filth  of  ages  churned  up  by  the  screws  and  the 
paddle-wheels  is  beginning  to  cling  to  her  splendid 
robes.     It  is  only  in  the  evening  one  may  occasionally 
look  into  her  eyes  and  view  her  very  soul.     She  used 
to  gather  about  her  innumerable  ships,  that  sailed  at 
her  bidding  and  were  precious  in  her  eyes ;  now  they 
hoot  at  her  and  despise  her  on  her  piles.    She  wedded 
the  sea  in  her  youth,  and  it  is  he  who  at  the  last  will 
save  her  from  the  savages  who  have  deflowered  her. 
Gradually  he,  her  immortal   lover,  is  gathering  her 
into  his  embrace ;  soon  he  will  kiss  her  on  the  mouth 
and  cleanse  her  from  all  the  abominations  that  we 
have  made  her  suffer.     For  she  is  too  beautiful  for 
our  little  day ;  she  has  attained  immortality,  and  we 
who  must  die  hate  her  therefor — our  very  thoughts 


THE    CAMPANILE    OF   ST    MARK       281 

are  an  insult  to  her.  But  he  who  is  her  husband 
is  rising  irresistibly,  and  will  one  day  surround  her 
with  his  inviolable  silence,  his  immaculate  purity, 
his  everlasting  strength. 

Thus,  when  I  evoke  her  image,  does  she  appear 
to  me  enthroned  on  her  piles  sinking  into  the  mud 
encircled  by  the  sea.  And  believing  as  I  do  that  one 
day  a  great  cry  will  go  up  for  her  beauty  and  her 
splendour  and  her  strength  when  it  is  too  late,  I 
desire  nothing  better  than  to  be  remembered  as  one 
who  loved  her  and  that  for  which  she  stands,  and 
hated  with  bitterness  and  despair  the  Great  Beast 
who  destroyed  her,  and  whom  her  spirit  will  one 
day  everlastingly  vanquish. 
•  ••*•••• 

To  think  of  Venice  without  the  Campanile  of  St 
Mark  is  to  any  one  who  has  ever  known  her  in- 
timately almost  an  impossibility.  For  it  was  not 
the  Piazza  di  San  Marco  alone  that  the  famous  bell- 
tower  dominated,  but  all  Venice  too,  across  whose 
silent  ways  that  bell,  sounded  by  the  watchman  on 
the  summit  every  quarter  of  an  hour  by  day  and 
night,  no  longer  sounds.  So  passes  the  glory  of 
the  world. 

Begun  in  902  under  Doge  Pietro  Tribuno,  it  was 
not  till  1 150,  under  Doge  Domenico  Morosini,  that 
it  was  finished  so  far  as  the  belfry,  which  was  added 
under  Doge  Leonardo  Loredan  in  15 10.  The  belfry 
and  pyramid  then  added,  completing  the  shaft,  were 
the  work  of  Buono ;  the  belfry  was  a  beautiful  "  open 


282  VENICE 

loggia  of  four  arches  in  each  face,"  and  commanded  a 
magnificent  view  of  Venice  and  her  islands.  The 
whole  tower,  including  the  angel  which  tipped  it,  was 
323  feet  high,  while  the  base  measured  42  feet.  And 
now  that  it  has  fallen  a  mere  mass  of  ruin  100  feet 
high  in  the  Piazzi,  we  are  beginning  to  realise  perhaps 
what  we  have  lost.  For  four  hundred  years  not  one 
of  our  countrymen  has  visited  Venice  without  being 
astonished  at  the  beauty  of  the  Campanile.  John 
Evelyn  thus  writes  of  it  in  his  '  Diary '  concerning 
his  visit  to  Venice  in  1645  : — 

Having  fed  our  eyes  with  the  noble  prospect  of  the  island 
of  St  George,  the  galleys,  gondolas,  and  other  vessels  passing 
to  and  fro,  we  walked  under  the  cloisters  on  the  other  side 
of  this  goodly  piazza,  being  a  most  magnificent  building,  the 
design  of  Sansorino.  Here  we  went  into  the  zecca  or  mint. 
.  .  .  After  this  we  climbed  up  the  tower  of  St  Mark,  which 
we  might  have  done  on  horseback,  as  'tis  said  one  of  the 
French  kings  did,  there  being  no  stairs  or  steps,  but  returns 
that  take  up  an  entire  square  on  the  arches  40  feet,  broad 
enough  for  a  coach.  This  steeple  stands  by  itself,  without 
any  church  near  it,  and  is  lather  a  watch-tent  in  the  corner 
of  the  great  piazza,  230  feet  in  height,  the  foundation  exceed- 
ing deep  ;  on  the  top  is  an  angel  that  turns  with  the  wind, 
and  from  hence  is  a  prospect  down  the  Adriatic  as  far  as 
Istria  and  the  Dalmatian  side,  with  the  surprising  sight  of 
this  miraculous  city  lying  in  the  bosom  of  the  sea  in  the 
shape  of  a  lute,  the  numberless  islands  tacked  together  by 
no  fewer  than  450  bridges. 

Mr  John  Evelyn  seems  to  have  made  some  mistake  as 
to  the  height  of  the  tower ;  and  indeed  though,  as  he 


SAN    GIORGIO    MAGGIORE  283 

says,  the  foundation  was  exceeding  deep,  it  was  not 
deep  enough  to  prevent  our  grief. 

But  the  Campanile  of  St  Mark  is  not  the  only  tower 
in  Venice  that  we  hold  precious.  In  a  halo  of  mist 
in  early  morning,  sailing  as  it  were  in  a  sea  as  smooth 
and  blue  and  transparent  as  the  sky  itself,  rises  the 
island  of  St  George,  with  its  church  and  monastery 
and  its  mighty  bell-tower,  tipped  too  with  a  golden 
angel  that  looks  like  a  tall  lily  standing  in  the  serene 
waters  of  some  lake  of  fancy.  Indeed,  one's  first 
impression  almost  of  Venice  is  one  of  rosiness,  as 
though  some  soft  indefinite  rosy  light  shone  through 
everything  there.  And  it  is  from  this  Tower  of  San 
Giorgio  Maggiore  that,  as  I  think,  the  finest  view  of 
Venice  is  to  be  seen ;  finer  than  that  from  the  Tower 
of  St  Mark,  since  one  is  as  it  were  really  outside 
Venice,  almost  in  the  sea,  which,  tired  and  motionless 
in  the  heat,  completely  surrounds  one.  The  Church 
of  San  Giorgio  Maggiore  is  the  work  of  Palladio,  and 
was  begun  in  1565.  It  is  not  long  since  Roman 
remains  were  discovered  on  the  island,  that  was  in 
old  days  called  Isola  dei  Cipressi — the  island  of  the 
cypresses.  It  would  seem  that  there  was  a  Benedic- 
tine monastery  here  so  long  ago  as  985.  The  Doge 
Domenico  Michele  is  buried  within  the  Church  of 
Palladio.  It  was  he  who  brought  the  two  granite 
columns  from  Syria  that  are  now  and  have  been 
since  1180  the  chiefest  monument  of  the  Piazzetta, 
exquisitely  visible  from  San  Giorgio  ;  with  these  he  also 
brought  the  body  of  San  Isodoro,  a  not  less  precious 


284  VENICE 

gift.  Over  his  tomb  are  carved  the  words,  "Terror 
Grsecorum  hie  jacet."  The  monastery,  together  with 
how  many  others  in  Italy,  has  been  secularised,  and 
is  now  used  as  an  artillery  barracks ! 

It  is  perhaps  from  this  island  that  one  has  the 
finest  view  of  the  Doge's  Palace,  a  dream  of  splendour 
in  the  distance ;  and  one  cannot  help  asking  oneself 
as  one  gazes  on  so  much  beauty,  How  long  will  it 
remain  with  us  to  rejoice  us  of  the  modern  world  ? 
For  though  the  fall  of  St  Mark's  Tower  came  as  a 
surprise  at  least  to  the  outer  world,  though  it  would 
appear  those  responsible  for  the  buildings  of  Venice 
had  frequently  been  warned  by  their  own  architect  of 
its  inevitable  fall  unless  various  repairs  were  under- 
taken, it  is  not  so  long  since  we  were  told  that  that 
side  of  the  ducal  palace  from  which  springs  the 
Bridge  of  Sighs  was  gradually  sinking  into  the  mud, 
whither — in  how  short  a  time  ! — all  Venice  must 
surely  follow.  The  inevitable  decay  of  the  piles  of 
white  poplar  wood,  driven  into  the  mud,  the  dredging 
of  the  lagoon  and  the  tideway  for  the  huge  modern 
ships,  the  wash  and  swirl  and  hurry  of  the  passing 
steamboats  up  and  down  the  Grand  Canal  that  was 
surely  never  meant  for  them, — all  have  contributed 
toward  the  downfall  of  that  majestic  and  lovely 
tower  whose  loss  we  have  as  yet  hardly  realised, 
whose  fall  has  left  our  world  by  how  great  a  thought 
less  lovely  than  of  old. 

On  one's  first  coming  to  her,  Venice  has  a  strange 
fascination  for  even  the  most  philistine  tourist,  nor  is 


AVE   AT  QUE    VALE  285 

that  first  impression  unenduring.  It  is  easy  to  under- 
stand and  to  describe  her  obvious  beauty,  the  mystery 
of  that  limitless  horizon,  the  voluptuous  glory  of  sun- 
set ;  the  delicate  and  fragile  splendour  of  dawn — even 
her  numberless  islands ;  the  blue  and  grey  and  silver 
in  which  the  twilight  dresses  her  ;  the  music  of 
mandolin  and  guitar  and  the  voices  of  the  gondoliers 
echoing  among  her  half-deserted  palaces,  that  bear 
the  names  of  princely  families  that  have  passed  for 
ever.  A  sensuous,  and  amid  all  that  dead  and  dying 
loveliness  around  perhaps  a  sensual  emotion  has  from 
the  first  almost  entire  possession  of  the  traveller  ;  and 
this,  as  I  think,  is  no  false  impression  but  a  profound 
truth,  that  is  true  enough  to  be  obvious — perceived  by 
the  most  casual  passer-by.  A  largesse  of  colour  that 
is  in  itself  a  kind  of  rich  music,  fierce  and  splendid, 
possessed  of  many  a  dying  fall,  awaits  all  who  may 
come  to  her,  suggesting  to  them  the  galop  of  the 
bugles,  the  triumphant  assurance  of  the  scarlet 
trumpets  and  all  their  insolent  joy,  the  thunder  of 
innumerable  drums  deadening  thought,  and  the 
exquisite  honey  of  violins  and  harps,  the  wrathless 
passion  of  the  mandolin,  the  balanced  wisdom  of 
violoncellos.  It  is  in  some  such  emotional  rapture  as 
this  that  one  leaves  her  after  staying  but  a  few  weeks 
with  her  in  summer  time.  For  she  seems  to  be 
fulfilled  even  now  with  a  kind  of  riotous  joy  beyond 
any  other  city  in  our  world.  But  it  is  not  thus  she 
will  appear  to  those  who  have  long  lived  beside  her 
silent  ways,  who  have  learned  to  know  her  very  soul. 


286  VENICE 

She  is  not  really  joyful  at  all,  but  profoundly  sad  ;  her 
ecstasy  of  beauty  is  over,  and  the  sunsets  only  gild 
a  dying  city,  only  glorify  her  last  mysterious  hours. 
For  her  husband  the  sea,  whom  she  wedded  in  her 
youth  with  a  ring  of  gold  and  ruled  so  imperiously 
for  many  years,  has  robed  himself  just  before  twi- 
light with  heavenly  gold  and  crimson  and  his  own 
white  and  blue ;  patiently  he  has  waited  these  many 
years,  till  she  has  grown  tired  of  conquest  and  glory 
and  is  ready  to  sink  into  the  arms  of  him  who  has 
loved  her  from  the  beginning.  Ah,  no,  she  is  not 
joyful :  she  is  thinking  perhaps  of  all  those  years 
that  he  has  waited,  or  of  her  own  bespattered  glory, 
and  her  beauty  that  is  almost  a  ruin.  Is  it  thus 
she  thinks  in  the  solitude  and  silence  of  her  limit- 
less horizon,  in  the  mysterious  loneliness  of  the 
lagoons  in  the  sunshine  under  her  wide  heaven, 
before  she  goes  down  to  the  depths  of  the  sea  ? 
Still  the  gondolas  at  evening  steal  back  from  the 
Lido,  like  ghosts  of  winged  Hermes,  silently  into 
the  city  as  night  descends  from  the  mountains  far 
away.  Still  the  stars  peer  down  from  an  unimag- 
inable height,  and  seem  like  great  golden  water-lilies 
on  the  waters  of  the  lagoon.  And  everywhere  and 
at  all  hours  there  is  a  kind  of  music :  perhaps  it  is 
the  weeping  of  the  oar;  perhaps  the  whisper  of  the 
lagoon  grass  through  which  the  gondola  passes, 
cleaving  a  disappearing  lane  as  it  goes ;  perhaps 
the  musical  blow  of  the  boat  itself  on  the  water, 
meeting  the  south  wind  coming  over  the  sand-dunes. 


AVE   AT  QUE    VALE  287 

And  at  evening  this  music  only  becomes  more  dis- 
tinct, more  passionate,  resolving  itself  into  singing 
heard  in  the  distance  to  the  accompaniment  of 
mandolin  or  guitar. 

Under  the  unfathomable  serenity  of  her  sky  she 
still  draws  breath  at  evening,  but  how  languidly! 
And  we  too  think  of  heaven,  and  with  her  just 
touch  it  perhaps  during  the  space  of  one  heart's 
beat.  Maybe  in  the  dusk  she  is  praying  that  her 
soul  may  be  relieved  of  this  disorderly  throng  of 
sensible  things.  Hers  has  been  one  of  those  sublime 
moments  that  have  no  return,  and  now  her  last 
lover  of  all  these  countless  ones,  Night  with  its 
warm,  damp  breath,  has  touched  her  eyelids  as  with 
a  kiss ;  for  she  has  turned  her  face  to  the  wind, 
the  wind  that  has  passed  over  the  sea.  And  he, 
her  true  husband — how  can  we  doubt  for  a  moment 
that  he  will  possess  her  at  the  last,  seeing  the  in- 
finite persistence  of  the  waves,  the  perseverance  of 
the  foam,  the  imperceptible  wearing  away  of  the 
rocks,  the  furious  beating  of  the  wind,  and  all  his 
travail  and  waiting  and  weariness  for  her  ? 

It  is  at  dawn,  perhaps,  that  Venice  appears  to  us  as 
of  old  a  city  of  joy.  In  the  cold  glittering  light  of 
sunrise  the  deserted  canals  are  fulfilled  with  a  kind 
of  ancient  poetry  and  all  the  ardour  of  silence.  Above, 
the  stars  are  dying  in  a  sky  almost  green  and  rimmed 
with  gold.  Some  mystery  of  light  coming  from  the 
cave  of  darkness  has  passed  over  the  city,  and  the 
palaces  and  towers  and  churches  seem  insubstantial, 


288  VENICE 

fairy-like,  aerial,  and  magically  new.  A  cold  faint 
wind  blows  from  the  sea ;  and  as  the  gondola  flies 
towards  the  dawn  past  the  Ducal  Palace,  that  seems 
like  a  house  of  ivory,  past  San  Giorgio,  that  is  delicately 
flushed  and  tall,  like  a  youth  almost,  gradually  the 
expanse  of  sea  and  the  strength  of  the  sea -wind 
dominate  the  city  that  has  already  faded  away  as  a 
dream.  The  great  red  sails  of  the  fishing-boats,  bellied 
by  the  wind,  the  foam  under  their  bows,  the  music  of 
the  buffeting  of  the  little  waves  raised  by  the  salt  sea- 
wind,  the  growing  splendour  of  that  immense  horizon, 
— all  are  fulfilled  with  a  riot  of  joy,  a  profound  enthu- 
siasm for  life,  conscious  of  itself  and  of  nothing  beside. 
And  gradually  the  ear  becomes  aware  of  the  thunder 
of  waves,  the  joyful  song  of  the  surf,  and  at  last  the 
boat  leaps  forward  and  lies  panting  upon  the  eternal 
waves  of  the  great  sea  that  has  already  consumed  so 
many  eternities. 

But  at  night  all  is  changed.  Perhaps  under  a  full 
moon  all  the  domes  are  glistening  with  silver ;  while 
before  one,  far  away  out  over  the  lagoon,  disappearing 
at  last  into  the  heaven's  heart,  stretches  a  path  of 
pearl,  along  which  the  gondola  passes  slowly  and 
gently,  as  though  the  way  were  indeed  precious.  It  is 
then,  in  the  numberless  smaller  canals  and  in  the 
Grand  Canal  too,  one  may  watch  the  city  dying  so 
slowly,  and  understand  her  profound  sorrow.  How 
indifferent  she  is  to  the  life  that  goes  on  around  her ! 
neither  the  love-songs  of  the  living  nor  the  chanting 
of  those  who  already  look  upon  death  as  upon  a  dear 


AVE   ATQUE    VALE  289 

mistress  move  her  at  all,  for  she  is  thinking  of  her  own 
destiny.  Far  away  from  her  thoughts  now  are  the 
lust  and  love  and  glory  of  the  world  that  still  live  in 
the  voices  and  mandolins  of  the  gondoliers.  What 
is  it  to  her  that  the  Piazza  di  San  Marco  is  full  of 
men  and  women,  that  in  the  Salute  they  are  singing 
Compline,  for  she  is  thinking  of  her  husband  the  Sea, 
and  of  her  destined  bridal  bed. 

And  still  beautiful,  still  the  most  lovely  city  of  our 
world,  she  will  gradually  or  in  a  moment  be  lost  to  us, 
and  he  her  husband  will  not  greet  her  as  less  than  a 
queen.  All  the  spoils  of  the  splendid  ships,  all  the 
beauty  of  his  prey,  all  that  in  the  centuries  he  has 
stolen  from  us,  all  the  sunshine  he  has  stored  in  his 
deep  indestructible  caverns,  he  will  lavish  upon  her, 
and  every  night  he  will  deck  her  with  innumerable 
stars.  Ropes  of  seaweed,  opalescent  and  rare,  shall 
sway  like  beautiful  snakes  in  her  hair  ;  banners  woven 
by  the  secret  sway  of  the  sea  shall  float  from  the  tall 
campanili ;  on  her  left  hand  shall  flash  the  mighty  ring 
of  the  fisherman  ;  and  over  her  heart  a  red  and  burning 
sun  shall  flame.  Thus  in  the  silence  of  that  lucent 
world  the  sea  shall  make  her  his  own  at  last. 


XIX. 

AT    PADUA. 

WITHIN  easy  reach  of  Venice,  Padua  stands  in 
the  plain  that  lies  at  the  foot  of  the  Euganean 
hills.  Chiefly  noteworthy  on  account  of  St  Anthony 
and  Giotto,  it  has  nevertheless  entertained  in  its  day 
many  illustrious  and  humble  personages,  among  them 
Mr  John  Inglesant  and  Mr  Nicholas  Ferrar.  Mr 
John  Evelyn,  a  contemporary  of  both,  has  given  us 
in  his  Memoirs  the  following  description  of  Padua 
in  the  seventeenth  century  that  will  not  be  without 
interest  for  the  reader : — 

On  the  .  .  .  June  we  went  to  Padua  [from  Venice]  to 
the  faire  of  their  St  Anthony,  in  company  of  divers  pass- 
engers. The  first  terra  firma  we  landed  at  was  Fusina, 
being  onely  an  inn,  where  we  changed  our  barge  and  were 
then  draune  up  by  horses  through  the  river  Brenta,  a  strait 
chanell  as  even  as  a  line  for  20  miles,  the  country  on  both 
sides  deliciously  adorned  with  country  villas  and  gentle- 
man's retirements,  gardens  planted  with  oranges,  figs,  and 
other  fruit  belonging  to  ye  Venetians.  At  one  of  these 
villas  we  went  ashore  to  see  a  pretty  contrived  palace.  .  .  . 
The  toune  stands  on  the  river  Padus,  whence  its  name,  and 


JOHN    INGLESANT  291 

is  generally  built  like  Bologna  on  arches  and  on  brick,  so 
that  one  may  walk  all  round  it  dry  and  in  the  shade  wch  is 
very  convenient  in  these  hot  countries,  and  I  think  I  was 
never  so  sensible  of  so  burning  a  heate  as  I  was  at  this 
season,  especially  the  next  day,  which  was  that  of  ye  faire, 
filled  with  noble  Venetians  by  reason  of  a  great  and  solemn 
procession  to  their  famous  cathedral. 

Mr  John  Inglesant  being  in  Padua  at  a  somewhat 
later  period  may  be  permitted  to  add  to  this  de- 
scription a  few  further  particulars.     He  says : — 

The  failure  of  the  silk  trade,  owing  to  the  importation 
of  silk  from  India  into  Europe,  had  destroyed  the  prosperity 
of  many  parts  of  Italy ;  and  in  Padua  long  streets  of  de- 
serted mansions  attested  by  their  beauty  the  wealth  and 
taste  of  the  nobility,  whom  the  loss  of  the  rents  of  their 
mulberry  groves  had  reduced  to  ruin.  Many  houses  being 
empty,  rents  were  exceedingly  cheap,  and  the  country  being 
very  plentiful  in  produce  and  the  air  very  good,  a  little 
money  went  a  long  way  in  Padua.  There  was  something 
about  the  quiet  gloomy  town  with  its  silent  narrow  streets 
and  its  winding  dim  arcades  by  which  you  might  go  from 
one  end  of  the  city  to  the  other  under  a  shady  covert — that 
soothed  Inglesant's  weary  senses  and  excited  brain. 

It  is  another  picture  we  get  from  the  learned  and 
devout  Mr  Nicholas  Ferrar,  his  biographer;  including 
as  it  does  something  of  the  life  in  that  magnificent 
century  at  the  famous  university  here. 

For  travellers  from  beyond  the  Alps  [she  writes]  the  chief 
attractions  of  the  Italian  Oxford  now  lie  in  the  picturesque 
cathedral  on  the  river  bank,  and  the   silent  garden  where 


2Q2  PADUA 

among  long  lines  of  mulberry  trees  stands  the  deserted 
chapel  which  Giotto  painted  while  he  listened  to  the  talk  of 
Dante. 

It  was  very  different  in  the  seventeenth  century.  The 
city  was  crowded  and  overflowing  with  youths  who  came 
from  all  parts  of  the  civilised  world,  eager  to  study  in  its 
famous  schools  of  law  and  medicine.  The  students  in 
the  great  University  of  Law  were  classed  in  twenty-three 
"nations,"  each  of  which  had  its  own  officers  and  its  own 
rules,  and  was  permitted,  under  the  sole  condition  of  not 
interfering  with  the  Government  or  religion  of  the  State 
of  Venice,  to  live  according  to  its  own  customs.  Its 
humbler  sister  the  University  of  Arts  could  number  but 
seven  "  nations,"  five  of  which  belonged  to  the  States  of 
Italy,  the  foreign  students  being  grouped  as  "oltremonte" 
or  "oltremare";  but  the  artisti  enjoyed  equal  independence 
with  the  aristocratic  quiristi  or  law  students.  Neapolitan 
and  Tuscan,  Frenchman  and  German,  Pole  and  Dalmatian, 
Englishman,  Scot,  Hungarian,  Spaniard,  Cypriote,  each 
when  he  came  forth  from  the  magnificent  palace  (once 
the  dwelling-place  of  the  Dukes  of  Carrera),  which  is  still 
the  home  of  the  university,  and  went  to  his  lodging  in 
the  fresco-painted  streets  of  the  students'  quarter,  found 
himself  in  the  midst  of  a  little  world  of  his  own  countrymen, 
where  he  might  unmolested  practise  the  manners  and  profess 
the  religion  of  his  own  land,  a  toleration  possible  at  that 
time  in  no  State  of  Italy  or  perhaps  of  Europe  [certainly  not 
in  England]  but  the  territories  of  the  Venetian  Republic, 
which,  owing  its  importance  mainly  to  its  wide  commercial 
relations,  used  every  means  in  its  power  to  make  foreigners 
feel  at  home  on  its  soil. 

Quarrels  of  course  were  of  constant  occurrence  in  this 
mixed  crowd  of  unruly  young  men,  and  the  luckless  "  Virro" 


NICHOLAS    FERRAR  293 

who  might  rashly  venture  to  interfere  was  often  ill-used 
and  even  stabbed  with  impunity.  It  was  very  dangerous, 
says  Evelyn,  to  traverse  the  streets  after  dark.  When  St 
Francis  de  Sales,  who  was  a  student  in  the  University  of 
Law  from  1587  to  1591,  irritated  his  companions  by  his 
refusal  to  join  in  their  evil  ways,  they  attacked  him  with 
blows,  and  the  future  bishop  was  forced  to  defend  himself 
with  his   sword. 

This  was  the  world  in  which  Ferrar  found  himself 
when  some  time  in  the  spring  of  1615  he  entered  the 
University  of  Arts,  in  which  was  taught  medicine, 
geometry,  philosophy,  and  rhetoric.  There  was  an 
anatomical  theatre  and  a  "  garden  of  simples  rarely 
furnished  with  plants,"  to  which  was  attached  a 
school  of  pharmacy,  which  had  been  in  existence 
for  more  than  sixty  years.  There  were  also  two 
hospitals  for  the  study  of  clinical  medicine,  furnished 
with  the  ''greatest  helps  and  most  skilful  physicians," 
and  most  miserable  and  deplorable  objects  to  exercise 
upon,  "  very  carefully  attended,  and  with  extreme 
charity." 

It  is  to  no  university  but  to  a  tiny  chapel  in  a 
garden  of  mulberries  that  the  traveller  comes  nowa- 
days. The  chapel  of  Madonna  dell'  Arena  is  not  far 
from  the  very  middle  of  the  city.  It  stands  in  the 
old  Roman  arena,  whose  shape  can  still  be  traced  in 
the  oval  of  the  garden.  Giotto  is  said  to  have  painted 
the  frescoes  in  the  Chapel  during  the  time  Dante  was 
in  Padua.  His  work,  always  profound  and  broad,  is 
sure  to  win  the  love  of  those  who  follow  Mr  Ruskin. 


294  PADUA 

One  dare  scarcely  enter  Florence  indeed,  or  at  least 
Santa  Maria  Novella,  should  one  be  unwilling  to 
worship  in  the  dark  cloister  a  tiny  fresco,  where, 
with  every  weapon  his  mother  tongue  provides  and 
many  of  his  own  invention,  Mr  Ruskin  stands  on 
guard.  It  is,  perhaps,  at  least  for  the  English  reader, 
impossible  to  study  Giotto  apart  from  Mr  Ruskin's 
work.  Perhaps  Mr  Ruskin  is  too  devout,  even  before 
so  worthy  a  god  as  Giotto.  His  supreme  achieve- 
ment seems  to  have  been  to  free  painting  from  the 
Byzantine  manner.  At  least  his  men  and  women,  his 
gods  and  angels,  were  once  alive.  But  he  seems  to 
have  desired  rather  to  express  thought,  character,  than 
beauty,  thus  to  a  large  extent  influencing  the  whole 
Florentine  school.  Kugler  says  of  him  :  "  It  is  impos- 
sible to  over-estimate  the  influence  of  Giotto's  genius. 
He  opened  a  fountain  of  Nature  to  the  gifted  genera- 
tions who  succeeded  him  in  Italy,  which  permeated 
through  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land,  spread- 
ing beauty  and  fertility  in  its  course."  The  which 
is  perhaps  rather  true  than  well  expressed.  It 
would  be  superfluous  for  me  to  name  the  subjects, 
one  by  one,  of  his  work  in  the  Arena  chapel  here 
in  Padua.  Every  guide-book  devotes  pages  to  them. 
They  are  devoted  to  the  life  of  Christ  and  the  life  of 
the  Madonna.  On  the  wall  above  the  high  altar 
Christ  is  seen  in  Glory,  on  the  western  wall  of  the 
chapel  Giotto  has  painted  The  Last  Judgment.  And 
of  all  his  work  here,  The  Resurrection  seems  to  me 
the  most  lovely,  with  perhaps  The  Nativity  coming 


SAINT   ANTONY  295 

next.  They  seem  to  me  beyond  the  rest  to  attain 
to  a  supreme  naturalness,  which  is  absent  from  much 
of  the  lovelier  work  of  Fra  Angelico,  and  which  seems 
to  have  been  Giotto's  especial  characteristic. 

From  this  chapel  of  Madonna  one  goes  to  the 
church  of  "  II  Santo  " — St  Antony  of  Padua.  Born  in 
1195  at  Lisbon,  St  Antony  received  at  his  christening 
the  name  of  Ferdinand,  which,  when  he  became  a 
son  of  St  Francis,  he  changed  for  that  of  Antony — it 
is  said  from  devotion  to  the  great  Abbot  Antony,  the 
Patriarch  of  monks ;  for  it  was  in  a  chapel  under  his 
invocation  that  St  Antony  of  Padua  was  received  into 
the  Franciscan  Order.  His  father  was  an  officer, 
Martin  de  Bullones  by  name,  who  fought  in  the  army 
of  El  Consultador.  As  a  youth  Antony  was  one  of 
the  community  of  canons  of  the  cathedral  at  Lisbon, 
where  he  had  his  schooling.  But  not  long  after  he 
had,  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  "  entered  among  the  regular 
canons  of  St  Austin,"  he  desired  greater  seclusion  and 
silence,  and  so  went  to  the  convent  of  the  Holy  Cross 
belonging  to  the  Order  of  St  Austin  at  Coi'mbra. 
There  he  appears  to  have  become  enamoured  of  the 
ascetic  life,  and  to  have  followed  it  during  eight  years. 
Suddenly  a  new  idea  seems  to  have  awakened  him. 
Don  Pedro,  Infant  of  Portugal,  about  that  time 
brought,  with  what  pomp  and  reverence  we  may 
well  imagine,  the  relics  of  five  Franciscans,  lately 
martyred,  from  Morocco.  Antony  was  immediately 
possessed  by  an  enthusiasm  for  that  order,  desiring 
above  all  things  to  lay  down  his    life    in  the  cause 


296  PADUA 

of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ.  The  Franciscans,  who 
doubtless  had  observed  the  youth,  seeing  his  en- 
thusiasm, encouraged  him  to  join  them,  a  step  from 
which  naturally  the  canons  of  Holy  Cross  en- 
deavoured to  dissuade  him.  And  in  all  the  struggles, 
both  interior  and  with  his  fellows,  that  followed  in 
this  his  desire,  it  is  the  poverty,  the  austerity  of  the 
Franciscan  Order  that  attract  him,  that  in  the  end 
compel  him  to  desert  to  St  Francis. 

In  1221  he,  having  obtained  the  consent  of  his 
prior,  entered  into  the  Franciscan  Order  of  Little 
Poor  Men,  taking  the  name  of  Antony,  as  I  have 
said.  And  consumed  by  that  horrible  enthusiasm 
for  death  that  is  the  mark  of  so  many  of  the  saints, 
he  early  set  out  for  Africa  to  seek  for  martyrdom 
and  to  preach  Christ's  Gospel.  "  He  was  scarce 
arrived  there,  however,  when  God,  satisfied  with  the 
sacrifice  of  his  heart,  visited  him  with  a  severe  fit 
of  illness,  which  obliged  him  to  return  to  Spain 
for  the  re-establishment  of  his  health."  By  chance 
the  ship  in  which  he  sailed,  baffled  from  its  course  by 
contrary  winds,  touched  at  Messina,  where  Antony 
heard  that  St  Francis,  the  very  god  of  his  idolatry, 
was  holding  a  "  general  chapter"  at  Assisi.  Thither 
he  went  in  spite  of  his  sickness,  and  having  set  eyes 
upon  that  Mirror  of  Perfection,  he  desired  never 
again  to  leave  him,  determined  to  forsake  not  only 
his  friends  but  his  country  also  so  that  he  might 
stay  near  St  Francis.  No  superior,  however,  would 
agree  "to  be  troubled"  with  him  in  his  condition 


SAINT    ANTONY  297 

of  sickness,  till  at  length  a  certain  Gratiani  from 
Romagna  sends  him  to  a  hermitage  at  Monte  Paolo, 
near  Bologna.  Here  he  appears  to  have  buried  him- 
self in  silence,  permitting  neither  his  learning  nor 
his  communications  with  God  to  be  so  much  as 
guessed  at ;  till  one  day  the  Franciscan  convent  is 
entertaining  some  Dominican  Friars,  for  the  Domin- 
icans and  Franciscans  are  always  thought  of  as  friends, 
and  the  Franciscan  superior,  wishing  to  show  his 
guests  honour,  desires  one  of  them  "  to  make  an 
exhortation  to  the  company."  But  they  all  with 
one  accord  began  to  make  excuse,  saying  that  they 
were  most  miserably  unprepared.  Then  the  superior 
desired  Antony  to  speak  just  as  God  should  direct 
him,  and  he  "  begged  to  be  excused,  alleging  that 
he  had  only  been  used  to  wash  the  dishes  in  the 
kitchen  and  to  sweep  the  house."  However,  he  is 
persuaded,  and  all  are  astonished  not  only  at  his 
learning  but  also  at  his  eloquence  and  humility. 
Tnis  marvellous  eloquence,  humility,  and  learning, 
all  in  combination,  comes  to  St  Francis's  ears,  who 
sends  Antony  to  Vercelli  to  study  and  to  teach. 
St  Francis's  letter,  in  which  he  recommends  this 
course  to  him,  is  as  follows  :  "  To  my  most  dear 
brother  Antony,  Friar  Francis  wishes  health  in 
Jesus  Christ.  It  seemeth  good  to  me  that  you 
should  read  sacred  theology  to  the  friars,  yet  so 
that  you  do  not  prejudice  yourself  by  too  great 
earnestness  in  studies;  and  be  careful  that  you  do 
not  extinguish  in  yourself,  or  in  them,  the   spirit  of 


298  PADUA 

holy  prayer."  After  this  Antony  appears  to  have 
taught  divinity  at  Bologna,  Padua,  Toulouse,  and 
Montpelier.  Soon,  however,  he  forsook  the  schools 
for  the  life  of  a  preaching  friar,  in  which  he  travelled 
through  many  lands,  making  many  converts  and  per- 
forming many  miracles,  but  at  last  he  comes  face 
to  face  with  that  Ezzelino,  lord  of  Padua,  whom 
Browning  names, — 

"  Grey,  wizened,  dwarfish,  devil  Ecelin." 

This  fiend  in  human  shape  had  in  one  day  murdered 
more  than  12,000  persons  in  Padua,  and  the  city  of 
Verona  too  had  "  lost  through  him  most  of  its  in- 
habitants." Antony  without  fear  confronts  him  and 
tells  him  of  his  sins — when,  instead  of  ordering  his 
guards  to  murder  the  saint,  as  seemed  most  likely, 
"  to  their  great  astonishment  he  descended  from  his 
throne  pale  and  trembling,  and  putting  his  girdle 
round  his  neck  for  a  halter,  cast  himself  at  the  feet 
of  the  humble  servant  of  God,  and  with  many  tears 
begged  him  to  intercede  with  God  for  the  pardon  of 
his  sins.  The  saint  lifted  him  up  and  gave  him  suit- 
able advice  to  do  penance.  Q  .  .  Ezzelino  seemed  for 
some  time  to  have  changed  his  conduct,  but  after  the 
death  of  the  saint  relapsed  into  his  former  disorders. 
At  length,  being  taken  prisoner  by  the  confederate 
princes  of  Lombardy  in  1259,  ne  died  distracted  in 
close  confinement."  Well  might  the  Pope — Gregory 
IX.  it  was — call  Antony  the  Ark  of  the  Covenant; 
well  may  the  people  of  Padua  always  love  him. 


SAINT   ANTONY  299 

St  Francis  dying  in  1226,  there  succeeded  to  the 
Generalship  of  the  Order  a  certain  Brother  Elias, 
who,  besides  being  worldly-minded,  appears  to  have 
forgotten  the  rule  of  the  order  as  regards  poverty. 
Against  him  Antony,  and,  strangely  enough,  a  certain 
Englishman  also,  Adam  by  name,  protest,  and  are  in 
consequence  persecuted  till  they  appeal  to  the  Pope, 
who  appears  to  have  received  them  graciously.  Soon 
after  this,  and  after  a  visit  to  Monte  Alvernia,  where 
St  Francis  received  from  Christ  the  Stigmata,  Antony 
is  made  provincial  of  Romagna,  having  some  time 
previously  retired  to  Padua,  where  he  died  on  June 
13,  1231,  in  his  thirty -seventh  year.  "  At  the  first 
news  of  his  departure,"  says  Butler,  following  the 
Bollandists,  "the  children  ran  about  the  streets 
crying,  •  The  saint  is  dead.'  "  He  was  canonised  by 
the  Pope,  Gregory  IX.,  in  the  following  year.  About 
thirty  years  after,  the  great  church  of  II  Santo  was 
built  in  Padua,  and  his  relics  were  there  interred. 
Such  in  brief  is  the  life  of  him  whom  all  the  world 
loves  and  turns  to  when  it  has  lost  or  mislaid  any- 
thing. He,  like  all  Franciscans,  is  a  protector  of 
the  poor.  At  his  tomb  in  Padua,  reader,  breathe 
a  prayer,  not  for  him  but  for  thyself  and  me. 


XX. 


AT   VERONA. 

MR  RUSKIN'S  'Architecture  and  Painting' 
contains  pages  of  curious  felicity  on  the 
beautiful  city  of  Juliet.  He  speaks  of  her  as  a  city 
with  whom  Nature  herself  might  compete  and  be 
vanquished,  and  compares  her  with  Edinburgh  for 
nobility  of  position  —  a  strange  comparison.  For 
Verona  with  her  cypresses  and  campanile,  her 
palaces  and  amphitheatre,  her  swift  and  splendid 
river,  her  vivid  and  passionate  history,  seems  to 
me  to  be  profoundly  different,  not  in  position  alone, 
from  the  city  of  Jenny  Geddes  and  Princes  Street. 
One  may  perhaps  very  aptly  and  truly  personify 
the   two   cities   in   the   figures   of  Juliet   and   Jenny 

Geddes. 

I  suppose  the  amphitheatre  is  still  the  chief  sight 

in  Verona  as  it  was  in  John  Evelyn's  day.  "The 
vastnesse  of  ye  marble  stones  is  stupendious,"  he 
says,  and  "  This  I  esteem  to  be  one  of  the  noblest 
antiquities  in  Europ,  it  is  so  vast  and  intire,  having 
escaped  the  ruines  of  so  many  other  public  buildings 


THE   CYPRESSES  301 

for  above  1400  years."  Yet,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that, 
to  me  at  least,  the  arena  of  Verona  appears  in  some 
inexplicable  way  more  "  stupendious  "  than  the  Col- 
iseum, it  is  not  there  that  one  lingers  curious  of 
Christian  dust,  so  precious  and  so  old,  but,  as  I 
think,  in  the  churches  of  Michele  Sanmicheli,  and 
at  evening  in  the  gardens  of  Count  Giusti's  villa, 
where  the  cypresses  are,  I  think,  finer  even  than  those 
of  Hadrian's  garden,  near  Tivoli.  And  it  is  perhaps 
here  in  these  gardens  that  the  very  atmosphere  of 
antique  Italy,  Italy  of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth 
centuries  at  the  least,  is  to  be  found.  The  majestic 
and  melancholy  cypresses,  that  yet  in  their  cheerful 
enthusiasm  for  heaven  are  beautiful,  like  ideal  monks 
with  hands  pointed  in  prayer,  or  like  solemn  tapers 
ecstatically  burning  for  the  glory  of  our  God,  seem 
to  invest  the  scene  with  a  new  kind  of  beauty,  that 
leads  us  at  last  to  the  contemplation  of  the  beauty 
of  holiness.  And,  on  the  eve  almost  of  leaving  Italy, 
it  is  some  such  emotion  of  her  ideal  self  that  we 
would  carry  away.  All  the  panoramic  life  of  Venice ; 
the  melancholy  splendour  of  Rome,  with  its  worldly 
ambitions,  its  modern  vulgarity  and  degradation ;  the 
hideous  brutality  and  ignorance  and  noise  of  Naples, 
— seem  now  to  fade  into  just  nothing  at  all  before  the 
quiet  beauty  and  calmness  of  Verona  as  seen  from 
these  gardens,  or  the  soft  outline,  almost  spiritual, 
of  the  far-away  Apennines  as  seen  from  Pisa,  or 
the  Certosa,  near  Florence,  seen  from  a  field  of 
corn  powdered  with  irises  and  poppies.      It   would 


302  VERONA 

seem  as  though  the  art  which  was  born  amid  such 
perfection  must  itself  reach  perfection  without  the 
struggle  and  effort  that  is  necessary  for  any  attain- 
ment whatsoever  in  the  North.  It  is  as  though  one 
were  in  a  "chosen"  land — a  land  indeed  "flowing 
with  milk  and  honey."  Something  of  this  beneficence 
is  visible  too  in  the  people — the  peasants.  One  seems 
to  understand  that  they  were  born  with  a  different 
soul  from  us  Northerners.  They  are  more  at  one 
with  a  Nature  that  for  the  most  part  is  urbane  and 
sumptuous,  yet  without  luxury,  indeed  with  a  kind 
of  "  dry  beauty  "  about  her  that  after  all  was  the  very 
morality  of  all  Greek  art.  Passionate  she  may  be,  but 
always  joyful,  always  fulfilled  with  joy,  even  in  anger. 
The  melancholy  that  has  so  profoundly  gathered  our 
own  land  to  itself,  that  seems  indeed  to  be  a  very 
part  of  our  landscape,  and  above  all  of  our  sky  (surely 
the  aspect  of  heaven  is  man's  chiefest  influence),  is 
not  to  be  found  save  perhaps  in  a  part  of  the 
country  around  Naples  near  the  Lake  of  Avernus. 
And  especially  in  this  pleasant  country  that  has  but 
lately  been  restored  to  Italy,  and  in  Umbria,  this 
peaceful  cheerfulness  is  found  suggesting  very  aptly, 
not  to  the  traveller  alone,  the  truth  that  not  rebellion 
but  peace  is  the  perfection  of  culture. 

As  the  traveller  wanders  up  and  down  the  antique 
streets  of  this  city  of  Verona  he  will  come  upon  much 
that  is  worthy  of  admiration.  The  tombs  of  the 
Scaligers,  of  which  Mr  Ruskin  has  written  with 
all   his  knowledge  and  enthusiasm  ;   the  Dominican 


SAN    ZENONE  303 

Church  of  Sant'  Anastasia,  a  lovely  Gothic  build- 
ing of  the  thirteenth  century;  the  tomb  of  II  Conte 
Guglielmo  di  Castelbarco,  the  Palazzo  del  Consiglio, 
the  Mercato  Vecchio  and  its  open-air  staircase,  and 
the  Campanile  that  rises  300  feet  into  the  soft  sky, 
the  Roman  remains  and  the  market-place  that  was 
the  Forum, — all  these  the  travellers  may  see  in  a 
single  walk,  and,  lovely  as  they  are,  they  will  speak 
to  him  of  his  own  dream. 

But  it  is,  I  think,  the  church  of  San  Zenone,  with 
its  detached  campanile  of  alternate  lines  of  brick  and 
marble,  that  strikes  as  it  were  the  keynote  of  this 
city  of  antiquity  and  romance  by  its  rapid  Adige. 
San  Zeno,  built  in  1138-1178,  has  something  mystical 
about  it,  something  that  is,  as  it  were,  a  Gothic  spirit 
cleansed  and  softened.  Three  arches  of  triumph  span 
the  nave,  the  last  being  the  arch  of  the  chancel,  under 
which  lies  the  crypt,  half  visible  from  the  nave.  In 
this  beautiful  crypt  San  Zeno  lies  buried  in  a  stone 
sarcophagus,  mounted  in  bronze,  that,  curiously 
enough,  the  setting  sun,  even  in  so  underground  a 
place,  sometimes  reaches.  The  low  roof  of  the  crypt 
is  supported  by  forty-eight  slim  columns  of  various 
forms,  and  the  three  round  arches  that  face  the  nave 
are  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  surprising  effects  of 
the  church.  The  choir  and  chancel  are  reached  from 
the  nave  by  two  magnificent  flights  of  steps  on  either 
side  of  the  screen,  on  which  are  statues  in  marble,  of 
the  thirteenth  century,  of  Christ  and  His  Apostles, 
the   curious   figure   of  San   Zeno   himself,   in  whose 


304  VERONA 

hand  is  a  fishing-rod  with  a  dangling  fish,  referring, 
let  us  hope,  not  to  Christian  baptism,  but  to  his 
supposed  love  of  fishing  in  the  Adige.  Julian  the 
Apostate,  the  sad  and  enlightened  emperor  whom  the 
puritanical  fury  of  the  monks  of  his  time  drove  to 
despair  and  forgetfulness,  is  said  to  have  been  in 
power  380,  when  San  Zeno  set  out  for  heaven.  One 
treasure  of  art  the  church  contains,  a  Madonna  and 
child  enthroned  with  SS.  Peter  and  Paul,  John  and 
Augustine,  on  the  left,  and  SS.  John  the  Baptist, 
Gregory,  Laurence,  and  Benedict  on  the  right, 
together  with  angels,  by  Andrea  Mantegna.  It  is 
difficult  to  see,  unless,  as  is  not  unlikely,  a  flight  of 
steps  is  at  hand,  for  it  is  hung  so  high  that  it  is 
almost  invisible  from  the  ground.  The  cloisters  are 
beautiful. 

It  is  not,  however,  those  things  which  can  be  named 
and  enumerated  that  make  San  Zenone  precious,  but 
the  atmosphere,  the  aspect  of  the  church  itself.  It 
seems  to  possess  an  inexhaustible  gift  of  suggestion, 
and  in  this  gift,  as  it  were,  is  akin  to  Sant'  Ambrogio 
in  Milan.  To  kneel  under  its  painted  wooden  roof  is 
to  attain  to  a  new  kind  of  sincerity.  One  multiplies 
one's  faith  by  detaching  from  it  all  luxury  that  has 
not  attained  antiquity.  Something  of  the  faith,  the 
vision,  that  is  buried  under  the  pagan  marble  of  the 
more  splendid  churches  of  Rome  disengages  itself 
from  the  very  fabric  of  the  humbler  churches  of  Italy. 
Religious  initiators  could  not  breath  this  atmosphere 
for  a  moment.     San  Zenone  seems  to  wear  the  sharp 


SAN   ZENONE  305 

impress  of  an  absorbing  motive.  It  was  built  in 
faith,  not  without  visions  of  heaven,  in  all  sincerity  of 
heart,  by  men  on  whom  the  world  and  all  we  mean  by 
worldliness  had  not  left  a  mark  as  they  have  done  to- 
day on  all  of  us.  They  looked  on  their  own  city  and 
their  land  of  fair  plain  and  supreme  mountain,  and 
they  refused  to  build  what  was  unworthy  of  all  that. 
And  having  nothing  to  unlearn  in  the  desire  of  their 
hearts,  they  occupied  themselves  in  simple  fashion 
with  God's  house,  having  not  a  little  inward  beauty  in 
their  hearts,  seeing  they  were  born  under  that  soft 
ineffable  sky. 


XXI. 

AT  MANTUA. 

OF  Mantua,  forlorn  upon  her  lakes,  where  over 
the  pale  green  water  the  red  sails  of  the 
fishing -boats  pass  how  languidly  under  the  case- 
ments, we  have  often  dreamed  in  the  winter  over 
the  fire  in  England,  while  turning  the  pages  of  the 
Mantuan. 

"...  primus  Idumasas  referam  tibi,  Mantua,  palmas, 
Et  viridi  in  campo  templum  de  marmore  ponam 
Propter  aquam,  tardis  ingens  ubi  flexibus  errat 
Mincius,  et  tenera  praetexit  harundine  ripas." 

Nor  is  she  less  lovely  than  our  dreams  of  her.  A 
city  of  silver,  her  Campanili  shining  into  her  ample 
sky,  forlorn  among  her  sedge  and  her  pale  green 
water,  she  is  still  the  city  of  Virgil. 

"  Mantua,  vae  miserae  nimium  vicina  Cremonae." 

Since,  reader,  you  are  determined  to  travel  by  rail, 
it  is  perhaps  here  almost  more  than  anywhere  else 
that  you  are  a  loser.     You  entirely  miss  the  walk 


A    FORLORN    CITY  307 

that  Dickens  has  described  so  well,  the  walk  from 
Verona  that  Romeo  went. 

Was  the  way  to  Mantua  as  beautiful  [he  writes]  when 
Romeo  was  banished  thither,  I  wonder?  Did  it  wind 
through  pasture  land  as  green,  bright  with  the  same 
glancing  streams,  and  dotted  with  fresh  clumps  of  graceful 
trees?  Those  purple  mountains  lay  on  the  horizon  then 
for  certain,  and  the  dresses  of  these  peasant  girls,  who 
wear  a  great  knobbed  silver  pin  through  their  hair  behind, 
can  hardly  be  much  changed.  Mantua  itself  must  have 
broken  on  him  in  the  prospect  with  its  towers  and  walls 
and  water  as  it  does  now.  He  made  the  same  sharp 
twists  and  turns  perhaps,  over  the  rumbling  drawbridges  ; 
passed  through  the  like  long  curved,  wooden  bridge ;  and 
leaving  the  marshy  water  behind  approached  the  rusty 
gate  of  stagnant  Mantua. 

It  is  almost  the  same  to-day,  if  you  can  be  per- 
suaded to  come  on  foot  or  by  carriage. 

Mantua  to  me  is  the  most  forlorn  city  of  Italy : 
something  of  the  stillness  and  silence  of  her  lakes 
seems  to  have  fallen  on  her  too.  She  is  a  city  of 
large  and  level  spaces  of  sunlight  and  shadow  and 
of  silence.  Gradually,  imperceptibly,  she  is  decaying 
under  the  sunshine  and  the  damp  of  her  lagoons. 
She  is  more  like  a  city  of  dreamland  than  any 
earthly  place  of  abiding.  Profoundly  beautiful, 
death  has  already  loved  her  and  encircled  her 
with  something  of  his  silence.  There  is  but  little 
to  be  seen  in  her  silent  streets  and  palaces. 

Giulio    Romano,    the    famous    pupil    of    Raphael, 


308  MANTUA 

lived    here    after    his    master's    death,    and    seems 
almost  to  have  made  the  town  his  own. 

The  excellent  qualities  of  Giulio  [says  Vasari],  causing 
him  to  be  esteemed  the  best  artist  in  Italy  after  the  death 
of  Raphael,  the  Count  Baldassare  Castiglione,  who  was  then 
in  Rome  as  ambassador  from  Federigo  Gonzaga,  Marquis  of 
Mantua,  and  was  the  intimate  friend  of  Giulio,  .  .  .  did  his 
utmost  by  prayers  and  promises  to  prevail  on  that  master  to 
accompany  him  to  Mantua,  Baldassare  having  been  com- 
manded by  the  Marquis,  his  master,  to  send  him  an  architect 
of  whose  services  he  might  avail  himself,  whether  for  his  own 
palace  or  the  necessities  of  the  city,  and  having  moreover 
observed  that  it  would  be  particularly  agreeable  to  him  if  he 
could  have  Giulio.  The  latter  thereupon  declared  at  length 
that  he  would  certainly  go,  provided  they  could  obtain  the  per- 
mission of  the  Pope ;  and  the  desired  licence  being  secured, 
Baldassare,  who  was  returning  to  Mantua,  .  .  .  took  Giulio 
with  him  to  that  city. 

There  is  much  of  Giulio's  work  in  Mantua,  and  for 
this  reason,  if  for  no  other,  Mantua  is  worthy  of  a 
visit.  The  Duomo  in  Piazza  San  Pietro,  the  interior 
of  the  Palazzo  Ducale,  the  frescoes  in  the  Scalcheria 
of  The  Chase  of  Diana,  and  Venus  in  the  Vulcan's 
Workshop,  and  the  Palazzo  del  Te,  are  all  the  work 
of  this  one  man.  The  Palazzo  del  Te  alone  should 
give  the  traveller  pause  ere  he  omits  Mantua  from 
his  little  list  of  places  to  be  seen.  A  dreary,  forlorn 
place  enough,  desolate  and  damp,  built  in  a  swamp, 
it  is  the  creation,  with  all  its  decorations,  of  a  genius 
overcome  perhaps  by  the  profound  dreams  that  arise 
from  the  lakes  and  lagoons  around  the  city.     Some 


GIULIO    ROMANO  309 

terrible  distress  of  mind,  amounting  almost  to  a 
disease,  seems  to  have  been  devouring  the  very  soul 
of  the  painter. 

To  render  his  work  still  more  fearful  and  terrible  [says 
Vasari],  Giulio  has  exhibited  many  of  the  giants,  who  are  of 
the  most  extraordinary  forms,  as  well  as  of  immense  stature, 
in  the  act  of  falling  to  the  earth,  some  backward  and  others  on 
their  faces  as  they  are  differently  struck  and  wounded  by  the 
lightnings  and  thunderbolts ;  some  are  already  dead,  others 
writhing  with  their  wounds,  and  still  more  lying  crushed  and 
partially  covered  by  the  mountains  and  edifices  which  have 
fallen  upon  them.  Wherefore  let  none  believe  that  he 
could  ever  behold  any  work  of  the  pencil  better  calculated 
to  awaken  fear  and  horror,  or  more  truly  natural  and  life- 
like, than  that  before  us ;  nay,  whosoever  enters  that 
chamber  and  sees  all  the  doors,  windows,  and  other  parts, 
constructed  as  they  are  awry,  and,  as  it  were,  on  the  point 
of  falling  with  the  buildings,  and  even  the  mountains 
tumbling  around  in  ruin,  cannot  fail  to  be  in  doubt  whether 
all  be  not  about  to  topple  down  upon  him,  and  the  rather 
as  he  sees  the  very  gods  in  heaven,  some  rushing  here  and 
others  there,  but  all  taking  flight.  Another  circumstance 
remarkable  in  this  work  is  that  it  has  neither  beginning  nor 
end ;  the  whole  is,  nevertheless,  well  connected  in  all  its 
parts,  and  continued  throughout  unbroken  by  division  or 
the  intervention  of  frame-work  or  decorations,  so  that  all  the 
objects  which  are  near  the  buildings  appear  to  be  of  great 
size,  while  those  at  a  distance,  and  scattered  about  the  land- 
scapes, seem  to  diminish  gradually  until  they  become  lost 
amidst  infinite  space,  whence  this  apartment  has  the  appear- 
ance of  a  wide  tract  of  country. 

Robbed  as  she  has  been  of  her  pictures,  beside  Giulio 


310  MANTUA 

there  remains  work  by  Andrea  Mantegna  of  a  more 
pleasing  character  perhaps  than  usual — "  charming 
cupids,  like  fleecy  clouds  turned  to  babies,  playing  in 
a  sky  of  the  most  marvellous  blue,  among  garlands 
of  green  and  of  orange  and  lemon  trees,  cut  into 
triumphal  arches,  with  the  Marquis  of  Mantua  and  all 
the  young  swashbuckler  Gonzagas  underneath." 

But  in  spite  of  all  the  splendour  that  here  and 
there  meets  the  eye,  Mantua  is  a  fairy  land  forlorn. 
Desolate  among  her  lagoons,  she  awaits  no  future. 
In  her  streets  the  past,  full  of  fantastic  silences  and 
sunshine  and  the  awful  damp  of  forgotten  nights,  sits 
with  a  great  dignity  watching  its  own  funeral.  Over 
her  gates  seem  to  be  graven  the  words  "  Ave  atque 
vale." 


XXII. 

AT   MILAN. 

MILAN  is  the  most  modern  city  in  Italy.  To 
the  traveller  returning  from  a  journey 
through  the  peninsula  his  arrival  in  Milan  is  accom- 
panied by  a  shock  of  surprise.  Can  this  still  be  Italy  ? 
he  asks  himself  as  he  gazes  on  the  busy  streets  and 
the  extraordinary  and  certainly  not  Italian  cathedral. 
And  yet  Milan  is  not  all  modern  :  she  too,  like  every 
city  in  this  marvellous  land,  has  gifts  for  the  traveller, 
and  indeed  hers  are  not  the  least  splendid  in  the  world. 

Within  her  picture-gallery,  the  Brera,  are  some  of 
the  most  lovely  works  of  the  school  of  Lionardo — and 
La  Madonna  della  Grazie  still  holds  the  remains  of 
Lionardo's  own  fresco,  The  Last  Supper.  But  it  is, 
as  I  think,  in  her  churches  that  Milan  is  really  rich, 
so  that  when  one  has  forgotten  the  cathedral  alto- 
gether— not  a  difficult  matter — one  may  still  find  in 
Sant'  Ambrogio,  Sant'  Eustorgio,  La  Madonna,  and 
San  Nazzaro  Maggiore,  buildings  as  lovely  as  any 
in  Italy. 

Milan  is,  however,  a  city  entirely  given  over  to  the 


312  MILAN 

electric  tram  system  that  has  its  centre,  not  inappro- 
priately, in  the  Piazza  del  Duomo.  But  in  the 
churches  and  in  the  picture-gallery  one  soon  forgets 
the  hideous  modern  aspect  of  this  ancient  city.  Sant' 
Ambrogio,  to  my  mind  one  of  the  finest  churches  in 
Italy,  was  founded  by  St  Ambrose,  who  was  Bishop 
of  Milan  in  385. 

Ambrose  [says  Cardinal  Newman]  was  eminently  a 
popular  bishop,  as  everyone  knows  who  has  read  ever  so 
little  of  his  history.  His  very  promotion  to  the  sacred  office 
was  owing  to  an  excitement  of  the  populace.  Auxentius, 
his  Arian  predecessor  in  the  See  of  Milan,  died  a.d.  374, 
upon  which  the  bishops  of  the  province  wrote  to  the  then 
Emperor,  Valentinian  the  First,  who  was  in  Gaul,  requesting 
him  to  name  the  person  who  was  to  succeed  him.  This 
was  a  prudent  step  on  their  part,  Arianism  having  intro- 
duced such  matter  for  discord  and  faction  among  the  Milan- 
ese that  it  was  dangerous  to  submit  the  election  to  the 
people  at  large,  though  the  majority  of  them  were  orthodox. 
Valentinian,  however,  declined  to  avail  himself  of  the  per- 
mission thus  given  him  ;  the  choice  was  thrown  upon  the 
voices  of  the  people,  and  the  cathedral,  which  was  the 
place  of  assembling,  was  soon  a  scene  of  disgraceful  uproar 
as  the  bishops  had  anticipated.  Ambrose  was  at  that  time 
civil  governor  of  the  province  of  which  Milan  was  the 
capital ;  and  the  tumult  increasing,  he  was  obliged  to  inter- 
fere in  person  with  a  view  of  preventing  its  ending  in  open 
sedition.  He  was  a  man  of  grave  character,  and  had  been 
in  youth  brought  up  with  a  sister  who  had  devoted  herself 
to  the  service  of  God  in  a  single  life ;  but  as  yet  was  only 
a  catechumen,  though  above  thirty  years  of  age.  Arrived 
at  the  scene  of  tumult  he  addressed  the  assembled  crowds, 


SAINT   AMBROSE  313 

exhorting  them  to  peace  and  order.  While  he  was  speaking 
a  child's  voice,  as  is  reported,  was  heard  in  the  midst  of  the 
crowd  to  say,  "  Ambrose  is  bishop  "  :  the  populace  took  up 
the  cry,  and  both  parties  in  the  church,  Catholic  and  Arian, 
whether  influenced  by  a  sudden  enthusiasm  or  willing  to 
take  a  man  who  was  unconnected  with  party,  voted  un- 
animously for  the  election  of  Ambrose.  It  is  not  wonderful 
[Cardinal  Newman  continues]  that  the  subject  of  this  sudden 
decision  should  have  been  unwilling  to  quit  his  civil  office 
for  a  station  of  such  high  responsibility  :  for  many  days  he 
fought  against  the  popular  voice,  and  that  by  the  most  ex- 
travagant expedients.  He  absconded  and  was  not  recovered 
till  the  emperor,  confirming  the  act  of  the  people  of  Milan, 
published  an  edict  against  all  who  should  conceal  him. 
Under  these  strange  circumstances  Ambrose  was  at  length 
consecrated  bishop.  His  ordination  was  canonical  only  on 
the  supposition  that  it  came  under  these  rare  exceptions  for 
which  the  rules  of  the  Church  allow  when  she  speaks  of 
election  "  by  divine  grace,"  by  the  immediate  suggestion  of 
God ;  and  if  ever  a  bishop's  character  and  works  might 
be  appealed  to  as  evidence  of  the  divine  purpose,  surely 
Ambrose  was  the  subject  of  that  singular  and  extraordinary 
favour.  From  the  time  of  his  call  he  devoted  his  life  and 
abilities  to  the  service  of  Christ.  He  bestowed  his  personal 
property  on  the  poor ;  his  lands  on  the  Church,  making  his 
sister  tenant  for  life.  Next  he  gave  himself  up  to  the 
peculiar  studies  necessary  for  the  due  execution  of  his  high 
duties  till  he  gained  that  deep  insight  into  Catholic  truth 
which  is  evidenced  in  his  works,  and  in  no  common 
measure  in  relation  to  Arianism,  which  had  been  the 
dominant  creed  in  Milan  for  the  twenty  years  preceding 
his  elevation. 

Thus  began  that  marvellous  life  which  ended  on 


314  MILAN 

Good  Friday  the  fourth  of  April  397.  It  was  said  of 
him  before  he  died,  by  Count  Stilico,  "the  guardian 
and  Prime  Minister  of  Honorius,  who  governed  the 
Western  Empire,"  that  the  day  "  this  great  man  dies 
destruction  hangs  over  Italy."  By  common  consent 
he  ranks  as  one  of  the  four  great  doctors  of  the 
Church,  the  others  being  St  Jerome,  St  Augustine, 
and  St  Gregory  the  Great. 

The  church,  however,  that  Ambrose  founded  in 
Milan  has  long  since  disappeared,  the  present  church 
having  been  built  by  Bishop  Aspertus  of  Milan  in 
871  in  the  same  place.  It  is  therefore  into  an  almost 
primitive  church  we  come  when  we  enter  Sant 
Ambrogio.  One  notices  many  features  in  common 
with  other  early  churches  in  Italy,  among  which 
not  the  least  attractive  and  important  is  the  cloister, 
or  courtyard,  before  the  great  door.  San  Gregorio 
Magno  in  Rome  has  a  similar  atrium.  Here  the  un- 
baptised  persons  who  were  still  under  instruction 
assembled  for  Mass. 

Inside,  the  church  is  plain  but  beautiful.  One 
seems  to  realise  the  homely  sincerity,  the  humility  of 
brickwork  as  opposed  to  the  fantastic  marble  and 
stone  of  the  cathedral.  There  is  a  true  Lombard  note 
in  the  severe  and  lowly  beauty  of  so  sweet  a  house  of 
God.  Up  in  the  choir,  which  is  encircled  by  a  fine 
marble  screen  of  great  antiquity,  behind  the  high 
altar,  almost  by  chance  one  comes  upon  the  very 
chair  of  St  Ambrose — the  great  archbishop — in  which 
the  present  Archbishop  of  Milan,   too,   sits  in  state 


THE    CHURCH    OF   ST   AMBROSE      315 

even  as  St  Ambrose  did  fifteen  hundred  years  ago. 
The  high  altar  itself  is,  I  suppose,  the  most  splendid 
in  all  Italy.  Even  to  look  on  it  costs  five  francs.  It 
consists  of  plates  of  gold  in  front  and  silver  behind, 
curiously  worked  in  relief.  The  golden  plates  relate 
the  life  of  our  Lord,  the  silver  the  life  of  St  Ambrose. 
The  altar  is  encrusted  with  innumerable  gems  and 
enamel,  and  was  the  work  of  one  Volfinus,  a  German 
goldsmith  of  the  ninth  century.  He  made  it  in  honour 
of  St  Ambrose  at  the  bidding  of  Angilbertus,  Arch- 
bishop of  Milan.  Four  columns  of  porphyry  support 
the  canopy,  which  is  decorated  with  reliefs,  also  of 
ninth  century  workmanship.  And  it  is  under  this 
precious  altar,  with  its  splendid  canop}',  that  St 
Ambrose  lies  buried  in  a  little  silver  shrine  in  the 
crypt.  But  full  of  marvels  as  the  church  is,  among 
which  not  the  least  noteworthy  is  the  pulpit  placed 
over  an  old  tomb  containing  some  precious  Chris- 
tian dust  about  which  we  know  nothing,  it  is  really 
as  a  whole  that  I  at  least  find  its  perfection — in  its 
sheer  beauty,  absolutely  without  pretence,  a  beauty 
entirely  sincere  and  homely,  that  as  yet  is  not  become 
a  thing  of  airs  and  of  the  world. 

And  it  is  a  somewhat  similar  charm  that  hangs 
about  Sant'  Eustorgio,  built  by  Tommaso  Lom- 
bardino  for  the  Dominicans  in  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury in  the  place  of  a  much  older  church,  dating, 
it  is  said,  from  the  fourth  century.  Originally 
the  church  appears  to  have  been  built  to  receive 
the  relics  of  the  Magi,  that   were  afterwards  stolen 


316  MILAN 

and  carried  to  Cologne.  So  the  tale  goes.  But 
for  us  to  -  day  the  church  is  chiefly  delightful  by 
reason  of  its  exquisite  brickwork, — a  style,  it  may 
be,  found  in  its  perfection  only  here  in  Milan  and 
in  Verona, — and  above  all  its  steeple  of  brick  too, 
and  of  the  thirteenth  century.  St  Peter  Martyr, 
for  whose  tomb  the  thirteenth-century  church  was 
built,  is  buried  here.  His  pulpit,  "  from  which  he 
often  confuted  the  Manichseans,"  is  still  in  the  west 
front  in  the  open  air.  His  shrine  in  the  chapel 
of  San  Pietro  Martire,  by  Balduccio  da  Pisa,  is  a 
very  noble  work.  Balduccio's  work  is  not  often  met 
with,  and  is  most  worthy  of  study.  It  will  be  long 
before  I  can  forget  the  figure  of  Charity  hugging  to 
her  breast  two  little  children.  There  is  something 
almost  modern  in  the  sentiment  of  the  value  of  youth 
as  such,  of  its  aesthetic  perfection. 

In  the  Madonna  della  Grazie,  where  Lionardo 
painted  his  great  picture  of  The  Last  Supper,  one  is 
pursued  by  a  different  spirit  from  that  of  humility. 
Walter  Pater  has  most  perfectly  expressed  the  senti- 
ment of  its  fading  and  faded  beauty  in  a  lovely 
passage  that  I  venture  to  take  from  his  book,  '  The 
Renaissance ' : — 

On  the  damp  wall  of  the  refectory,  oozing  with  mineral 
salts,  Lionardo  painted  The  Last  Supper.  Effective  anec- 
dotes were  told  about  it,  his  retouchings  and  delays.  They 
show  him  refusing  to  work  except  at  the  moment  of  in- 
vention, scornful  of  any  one  who  supposed  that  art  could 
be   a   work   of  mere   industry   and   rule,  often   coming   the 


LIONARDO'S   "LAST   SUPPER"        317 

whole  length  of  Milan  to  give  a  single  touch.  He  painted 
it,  not  in  fresco,  where  all  must  be  impromptu,  but  in  oils, 
the  new  method  which  he  had  been  one  of  the  first  to 
welcome,  because  it  allowed  of  so  many  after-thoughts,  so 
refined  a  working-out  of  perfection.  It  turned  out  that 
on  the  plastered  wall  no  process  could  have  been  less 
durable.  Within  fifty  years  it  had  fallen  into  decay,  and 
now  we  have  to  turn  back  to  Lionardo's  own  studies,  above 
all  to  one  drawing  of  the  central  head,  at  the  Brera,  which, 
in  a  union  of  tenderness  and  severity  in  the  free-lines, 
remains  one  of  the  monumental  works  of  Mino  da  Fiesole, 
to  trace  it  as  it  was. 

Here  was  another  effort  to  lift  a  given  subject  out  of 
the  range  of  its  traditional  associations.  Strange  after  all 
the  mystic  developments  of  the  middle  age  was  the  effort 
to  see  the  Eucharist  not  as  the  pale  Host  of  the  altar,  but 
as  one  taking  leave  of  his  friends.  .  .  .  Vasari  pretends 
that  the  central  head  was  never  finished.  But  finished 
or  unfinished,  or  owing  part  of  its  effect  to  a  mellowing 
decay,  the  head  of  Jesus  does  but  consummate  the  sentiment 
of  the  whole  company — ghosts  through  which  you  see  the 
wall,  faint  as  the  shadows  of  the  leaves  upon  the  wall  on 
autumn  afternoons.  This  figure  is  but  the  faintest,  the 
most  spectral  of  them  all. 

It  is  certainly  not  in  the  words  of  another  that 
you  might  wish  to  learn  the  story  of  Lionardo's  faded 
picture  on  the  old  convent  wall.  "As  one  taking 
leave  of  his  friends,"  it  is  the  sentiment  that  over- 
whelms one  in  so  sad  and  dreary  a  place. 

And  not  only  in  that  old  convent,  but  almost  every- 
where in  Milan,  it  is  of  Lionardo  one  thinks.  The 
chief  figure   in    all   these   splendid   years,   he   seems 


318  MILAN 

to  have  come  to  Milan  almost  like  Prometheus 
with  fire  from  heaven.  He  really  created  Milanese 
art.  Luini,  his  chief  pupil,  almost  overwhelms 
the  Brera  with  his  work,  and  while  some  of  it  is 
negligible,  he  sometimes  almost  attains  the  perfection 
of  his  master.  Perfection,  after  all  it  is  just  that 
that  Lionardo  sought  for.  One  hears  that  he  was  im- 
patient of  all  work  done  for  practice  or  for  money — 
impatient  of  it,  that  is,  as  art.  Well,  I  think  he  was 
right.  And  in  an  age  such  as  ours,  when  but  little 
work  is  done  for  any  other  result  than  money,  his 
life  is  at  least  a  pattern  by  which  we  increase  the 
infinite  smallness  of  ourselves.  In  the  Brera  one 
may  see  how  high  something,  it  may  be  a  little  less 
than  genius,  led  a  man,  who  patiently  sought  what 
his  master,  not  less  patient,  had  succeeded  so  trium- 
phantly in  winning.  If  the  smile,  the  adorable 
features,  and  the  enigmatic  aspect  of  Leonardo's 
women  were  tricks,  which  I  for  one  will  never  believe, 
then  certainly  later  painters  were  curiously  clumsy  in 
the  attempts  to  imitate  an  artifice  that  we  have  been 
told  was  so  simple.  After  all,  Mona  Lisa  is  not  the 
only  work  by  Lionardo  that  we  possess,  and  in  the 
drawing  in  the  Brera,  that  outshines  all  the  Luinis 
and  makes  Raphael's  work  too  seem  somewhat 
sweet  and  obvious,  we  have,  I  think,  a  very  perfect 
proof  of  the  visions  Lionardo  saw. 

He  at  least  seems  always  to  have  lived  at  the 
highest  point  not  only  of  every  moment  but  of 
his    every  vision.       He  is  not    careless  even  of  the 


LIONARDO  319 

minutest,  the  subtlest  point  of  perfection.  And  see- 
ing that  he  lived  for  the  most  part  in  some  splendour, 
it  is  surprising  to  find  that  his  trick  at  least  served 
to  make  him  realise  his  dream  of  perfection. 

It  is  perhaps  difficult  in  Milan  to-day  to  think  of 
one  who  cared  so  much  for  beauty  as  to  be  patient 
and  to  wait  upon  her. 


CONCLUSION. 

TO  come  to  the  end  of  any  book  we  have  written 
is  perhaps  but  to  realise  how  far  short  we 
have  fallen  of  our  intention.  The  vision  appeared 
to  us  so  splendid — yet  how  poor  a  thing  we  have 
made  of  it !  For  in  betraying  that  exquisite  emotion 
to  captivity,  we  have  robbed  it  perhaps  of  almost  all 
its  beauty.  To  realise  this  is  the  constant  agony 
of  the  writer.  He  feels,  it  may  be,  little  better  than 
a  murderer.  And  if  it  is  true,  as  we  have  been 
assured,  that  "all  men  kill  the  thing  they  love,"  my 
love  for  Italy  must  excuse  the  faint  eloquence  of 
this  book.  For  to  defend  her  who  is  already  to 
most  of  us  so  precious  were  ridiculous.  And  though 
for  no  lesser  cause,  yet  for  this,  O  Mother  Church, 
pardon  my  weak  arm  too,  that  would  have  defended 
what  none  can  reach. 

At  least,  at  least  men  will  know  that  I  loved  her; 
and  though  to  many  that  will  seem  but  a  small 
thing,  I  at  least  am  assured  that  I  owe  to  it  every- 
thing that  is  precious  in  my  life.  Without  Italy  I 
am  beggared.  Though  God  saw  fit  to  make  me  an 
Englishman,  it  was  in  Italy  I  caught  my  first  glimpse 


CONCLUSION  321 

of  heaven.  Yet  He  knows  under  her  sun  and  sky  I 
envy  no  archangel  in  Paradise.  Neither  am  I  in  a 
hurry  to  meet  the  illustrious  dead  while  I  can  live 
in  her  quiet  cities,  or  listen  to  the  mandolins  in  the 
evening,  or  gather  grapes  in  my  vineyard.  It  is 
such  simple  things,  I  am  told,  together  with  a  little 
little  more,  that  will  cost  me  delight  eternal.  Well, 
doubtless  there  will  come  a  day  when  I  am  not  so 
much  as  remembered  in  the  world,  when  even  my 
friends  will  speak  and  behave  themselves  as  if  I 
had  never  been.  After  all,  friendship  is  but  "  Ave 
atque  vale "  ;  always  of  two  lovers  even,  one  must 
look  on  the  dead  face  of  other.  It  is  no  new  thing. 
For  the  world — yes,  even  for  a  tiny  corner  of  it — 
men  have  been  content  from  the  beginning  to  sacrifice 
eternity.  If  it  is  necessary  to  think  of  this  world 
as  enemy  to  the  next,  it  shall  go  hard  but  earth 
will  beggar  heaven. 

Yet  sometimes  I  think  that  I  am  deceiving  myself. 
Is  all  that  lies  behind  that  beautiful  image  that  we 
have  made  and  named  the  Past  really  so  lovely  as  I 
suppose,  or  has  my  imagination  played  me  false  ? 
Was  the  old  world  so  beautiful  ?  really,  actually ;  or 
is  that  only  another  lie  with  which  man  has  deceived 
himself  for  his  comfort  in  an  eternally  ugly  world, 
where  actuality  is  always  sordid  and  unlovely,  and, 
after  all,  the  lies,  the  dreams,  the  immense  fabrications 
of  the  mind,  the  only  beautiful  things  for  ever  and 
ever  ?  Am  I  engaging  myself  to  do  battle  for  a  chim- 
era ?     One  might  almost  think  so  on  looking  round 

x 


322  CONCLUSION 

on  life  to-day.  Yet  I  am  not  deceived  :  the  world  was 
once  as  lovely  as  our  dreams  of  it,  though  maybe  not 
quite  the  same.  Be  sure  he  who  carved  the  frieze  of 
the  Parthenon  had  saturated  himself  not  only  with 
Beauty  but  with  Reality  and  Nature,  and  was  but 
calling  on  his  mind  to  refine  and  his  hands  to  re- 
produce what  in  truth  his  very  eyes  had  seen.  Am 
I  deceiving  myself?     How  can  I  ever  know! 

I  have  seen  the  fishermen  put  out  to  sea  in  the 
dawn  after  a  storm,  when  the  air  was  cool  in  an 
ecstatic  happiness,  as  though  nature  had  expressed 
herself,  had  relieved  herself  from  some  unbearable 
emotion,  some  intolerable  thought ;  and  every  now 
and  then  the  wind  would  sweep  just  for  a  little 
distance  over  the  waves  still  white  with  hurry,  almost 
like  a  sob  breaking  from  a  woman  after  long  crying, 
involuntary  and  full  of  weariness.  And  it  has  seemed 
to  me  as  I  watched  those  sailors,  unconscious  of 
nature's  thoughts  or  sorrows,  sailing  so  swiftly  over 
the  haggard  waters  as  though  in  that  very  uncon- 
sciousness there  was  the  actual  beauty  of  the  old 
world  that  went,  almost  with  a  kind  of  innocence, 
about  its  own  simple  business. 

Or  again,  as  I  have  read,  on  some  summer's 
evening,  in  some  magnificent  and  simple  book,  the 
very  world  itself  has  been  translated  for  me  into 
a  more  profound  and  beautiful  language  than  any 
I  have  really  heard  with  my  bodily  ears.  And  I 
have  understood  that  my  world  too  is  lovely,  if  I 
can  only  find  sufficient  silence  so  that  I  may  listen 


CONCLUSION  323 

and  be  very  quiet  for  a  little,  or  see  —  ah,  for  a 
moment  —  some  light  among  the  shadows,  some 
new  perspective  in  which  the  world  would  be  trans- 
formed for  me,  so  that  I  might  see  the  simplicity 
of  a  thing  so  frail  and  mortal.  And  in  reading 
the  mighty  hexameters  of  Homer  I  have  most  often 
attained  to  this  vision  when,  never  without  excite- 
ment and  indescribable  emotion,  I  have  whispered 
the  magnificent  words  in  which  Agamemnon  tells  of 
his  own  death  and  of  the  death  of  Cassandra.  At 
that  moment  it  has  seemed  to  me  that  Beauty  was 
inseparable  from  simplicity,  and  everything  really 
inexpressible  save  in  the  most  simple  language  and 
the  easiest  words. 

Thus,  reader,  I  have  thought  on  the  plains  of 
Apulia  and  in  the  Apennines,  far  from  reality.  Have 
I  succeeded  in  building  that  ivory  chamber  within 
which  a  man  may  place  in  safety  all  his  desires  ? 
Shall  I  be  able  to  see  through  the  outer  shell  of  the 
everyday  world,  and  let  that  be  as  though  it  were 
not  ?  After  all,  is  that  not  really  the  end  of  all 
education  ?  But  above  all  else  that  I  have  wished 
has  been  the  desire  to  avenge  Beauty  upon  the  crowd, 
to  tear  in  pieces  the  vulgarity  that  it  seems  to  me 
clothes  the  Great  Beast ;  and,  if  necessary,  in  defence 
of  my  dream,  to  chastise  it  with  words  of  joy. 

If  the  worship  of  physical  beauty  is  really  a  direct 
negation  of  the  whole  modern  world,  that  will  bring 
with  it  an  unattainable  desire  for  the  past,  a  mad 
jealousy  of  the  profane  and  vulgar  present,  a  war  in 


324  CONCLUSION 

one's  own  soul  between  that  which  is  old  and  that 
which  is  new  in  life,  in  the  world,  in  the  hearts  of 
men,  how  shall  we  excuse  ourselves  ?  Hither  doubt- 
less points  the  old  litany  when  it  prays,  "  A  me  salva 
me,  Domine." 

But,  day  by  day  as  I  go  down  to  the  insatiable  sea 
or  gaze  at  sunset  upon  the  indestructible  headlands,  I 
am  rebuked.  Have  I  not  loved  Italy  well,  am  I  not 
content,  are  not  heaven  and  earth  agreed  ?  Be  sure 
even  now  as  ever  the  world  belongs  not  to  the  many 
but  to  the  few.  One  single  and  profound  thought 
outweighs  in  the  eternities  all  the  toil  and  sweat,  the 
fevered  endeavour,  the  sullen  and  unremitting  labour 
of  the  crowd.  To  him  who  can  keep  a  space  and 
silence  in  his  soul,  even  in  a  city,  all  that  is  worth 
having  is  assured.  It  is  for  him  I  write.  He  will 
understand  the  intention  of  this  book,  and  understand 
my  failure. 

But  there  is  the  same  glory  as  of  old  before  the 
rising  places  of  the  sun.  The  sea  is  still  angered, 
and  calm  anon,  the  stars  are  still  unnumbered,  the 
sky  inviolate,  we  are  still  made  of  dust.  Look  you, 
there  is  our  hope.  Even  Rome  may  still  be  reached 
by  walking. 


THE   END. 


Appendix 


AN    ITINERARY. 

It  may  be  of  some  assistance  to  the  reader  if  a  line 
of  route  enabling  him  to  see  Italy  practically  in 
her  entirety  is  mapped  out  for  him.  To  begin  then. 
Howsoever  he  may  enter  Italy — from  the  Riviera  or 
from  the  St  Gothard  or  from  Mont  Cenis — it  seems 
to  me  that  Genoa,  the  first  city  of  the  South,  should 
be  his  starting-point.  Genoa  is  a  city  by  herself, 
utterly  different  from  any  other  Italian  city :  three 
days  at  least  should  be  given  to  her. 

Leaving  Genoa  by  the  midday  train,  before  even- 
ing Pisa  is  reached,  where  two  days  may  very  easily 
be  spent,  and  more,  too,  if  the  traveller  is  indifferent 
to  time.  From  Pisa  an  excursion  to  Lucca  is  easily 
made,  where  also  two  days  are  not  too  short  a  time  in 
which  to  see  all  the  beauties  of  that  quiet  city.  Leav- 
ing Pisa  just  before  midday,  Siena  may  be  reached  via 
Empoli  early  in  the  afternoon.  In  Siena,  if  possible, 
a  week  at  least  should  be  spent,  for  Siena  is  filled  with 
innumerable  delightful  things  that  it  is  utterly  im- 
possible, in  spite  of  the  guide-books,  to  see  in  a  day 
or  two.  There  are  many  excursions  to  be  made  from 
Siena,  to    Monte   Oliveto,    to  San    Gimignano,   and 


328  APPENDIX 

other  places.  Leaving  Siena  early,  Orvieto  may  be 
reached  by  mid-afternoon  via  Chiusi.  Two  days  at 
least  should  be  given  to  Orvieto,  whence  to  Rome 
is  but  two  hours  in  the  train.  Two  weeks  must  be 
devoted  to  sheer  sight  -  seeing  in  Rome,  of  which 
delightful  occupation  guides  and  guide-books  will 
tell  the  traveller  more  than  he  can  ever  remember. 
I  have  therefore  tried  to  set  before  the  traveller 
aspects  of  Rome  which  the  guides  altogether  forget 
to  show  him.  From  Rome,  Naples  may  be  reached 
\n  five  hours,  and  should  the  traveller  have  plenty 
of  time  at  his  disposal,  many  delightful  places  may 
be  visited  en  route,  such  as  Segni,  Monte  Cassino, 
Caserta,  etc. 

For  most  of  Italy,  and  for  this  part  south  of  Rome 
especially,  Mr  Hare's  Guides  are  much  the  most  de- 
lightful. South  of  Naples  there  is  a  country  almost 
untouched  by  the  tourist,  and  very  well  worth  a 
visit.  The  accommodation  is  for  the  most  part 
almost  intolerable,  however.  Mr  Gissing's  book, 
'  By  the  Ionian  Sea,'  will  give  the  traveller  very 
delightfully  some  idea  of  what  he  may  expect.  Of 
Sicily  I  have  said  nothing — both  it  and  the  south  of 
Italv  deserve  a  book  to  themselves,  a  book  written 
in  the  great  leisure  of  Italian  summer  days. 

Returning  from  Naples  to  Rome,  where  a  few  of 
the  more  interesting  museums  may  be  revisited,  we 
then  set  out  for  Perugia,  visiting  Spoleto  for  an  hour 
or  so  on  the  way.  From  Perugia,  Assisi  should  be 
visited,  or  the  traveller  may  live  in  Assisi  itself  very 


APPENDIX  329 

comfortably.  The  inn  at  Perugia,  however,  is  de- 
lightful. Four  days  will  be  enough  for  Perugia  and 
Assisi  together  perhaps,  but  a  week  should  be  spent 
in  this  country  if  possible,  especially  if  it  is  fine 
weather.  From  Perugia  we  set  out  for  Florence, 
taking  Arezzo  on  the  way.  Two  weeks  at  least 
should  be  given  to  Florence,  which  is  inexhaustible, 
and  one  of  the  loveliest  cities  in  the  world — especially 
loved,  for  some  reason  or  other,  by  the  English. 
From  Florence  to  Bologna  and  thence  to  Ravenna 
and  back  again,  and  then  from  Bologna  to  Venice  is 
the  route  I  suggest.  Rimini  may  also  be  visited  from 
Bologna  if  the  traveller  so  desires.  In  Venice  also 
a  fortnight  is  not  too  much,  especially  if  Mr  Ruskin 
be  the  guide.  But  I  think  myself  that  Mr  Hare  is 
better  for  the  traveller. 

From  Venice,  via  Padua,  Verona,  and  Mantua,  to 
Milan  is  or  ought  to  be  at  least  a  week's  journey; 
when  after  four  or  five  days  in  Milan,  the  traveller 
will  retire  to  the  lakes  at  Como,  or  Cadenabbia,  or 
Bellagio,  or  Lugano,  or,  best  of  all  as  I  think,  Bella 
Vista  on  Monte  Generoso  to  recoup.  Thus  in  some- 
thing like  eleven  weeks  most  of  Northern  and  Central 
Italy,  including  Naples,  may  be  seen  without  too 
much  fatigue. 

If  I  may  so  far  enter  into  the  domain  of  the  guide- 
book, I  would  say  to  the  traveller :  Save  money 
where  you  like,  only  never  in  railway  fares,  especially 
for  long  journeys.  After  all,  one's  health  is  the 
chief  consideration,  and  I  would  rather  go  without 


330  APPENDIX 

my  luncheon  than  without  a  sleeping-car.      I   hope 
the  traveller  may  get  both. 

To  conclude  this  brief  time-table.  Let  me  suggest 
to  the  traveller  the  advisability — nay,  the  absolute 
necessity — for  scrupulous  politeness.  An  Italian  is 
not  to  be  driven.  But  he  may  be  led  with  ease — but 
with  ease.  I  will  not  say  that  politeness  will  do 
everything  that  money  will  do  in  England,  but  it  is 
nearly  as  ubiquitous  and  therefore  the  fashion.  To 
be  impolite  is  to  write  yourself  down  a  mere  boor, 
unspeakably  ill  -  educated.  And  if  there  be  those 
who  are  angered  at  the  very  precious  sight  of  the 
Host  or  the  glorious  spectacle  of  a  procession,  and 
who  happening  upon  this  book  in  a  fit  of  dejec- 
tion, have  read  so  far,  let  them  at  least  allow  so 
much  advice  as  this  from  one  who  sympathises 
with  their  scepticism  and  bad  taste,  not  at  all : 
Forget  your  anger  and  your  dislike,  and  for  the  sake 
of  your  country  and  her  honour  behave  like  gentle- 
men, and  forbear  from  forcing  your  opinions  under 
the  notice  of  those  whose  guests  you  are. 


A    NOTE    ON    EDUCATION    IN    ITALY. 

The  desire  for  universal  education  is  one  of  the  most 
obvious  of  the  various  passions  in  which  the  latter 
part  of  the  nineteenth  century  indulged  itself.  So 
terrible  has  this  passion  proved  that  now  even  the 
most  stupid  and  the  most  depraved  can  read  of  his 
own  heroic  vileness,  infamy,  and  despair  in  the  daily 
press  of  his  land.  Beside  this  monstrous  public  con- 
fession, the  Confessional  of  which  the  English  have 
an  almost  historic  dread  shines  like  a  star  in  its  deli- 
cate and  classical  quietness.  Even  the  very  poor, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  middle  class,  are  now  made 
free  of  that  mighty  kingdom  of  the  written  word,  in 
which  they  are  of  course  bewildered  strangers,  with- 
out any  sort  of  guide,  and  therefore  they  suffer  not 
from  literature  but  from  fiction  both  licentious  and 
vulgar,  from  the  lies  of  all  the  politicians,  the  dreams 
of  the  visionaries  who  like  themselves  are  strangers 
in  this  land,  and  from  the  immense  vagueness  of  their 
own  awakening  minds. 

Surely  education  was  the  master-passion  of  the 
last  thirty  years  of  the  nineteenth  century.  In  Italy 
from   1871   to   1881   so   fiercely  did   it  burn  that  the 


332  APPENDIX 

number  of  those  between  twenty  and  twenty -five 
years  of  age  unable  to  read  was  reduced  from  63  to 
54  per  cent.  Still  in  1894,  thirteen  years  later,  55 
per  cent  of  the  married  people  could  not  read.  Of 
late  years,  however,  especially  among  the  male  popu- 
lation, things  are  very  different,  for  in  1893  only 
38  per  cent  of  the  conscripts  for  the  army  were 
utterly  illiterate. 

There  are  in  Italy  between  46,000  and  52,000  ele- 
mentary schools,  with  an  attendance  of  about  2^ 
million  children.  In  England  and  Wales,  with  a  popu- 
lation of  32^  millions  (about  the  same  as  Italy),  there 
are  about  20,000  elementary  schools  inspected,  with 
accommodation  for  6%  million  scholars.  Above  the 
elementary  school  there  is  the  gymnasium,  then  the 
lyceum,  and  then  the  university.  If  we  put  the 
number  of  gymnasia  at  700  or  750,  and  the  number 
of  lycea  at  300,  and  the  number  of  universities  at  17 
or  20 — viz.,  Padua,  Pisa,  Rome,  Bologna,  Turin, 
Genoa,  Naples,  Modena,  Parma,  Pavia,  Messina, 
Macerata,  Catania,  Siena,  Florence,  Sassari,  and 
Cagliari — and  add  that  the  attendance  at  the  gym- 
nasia is  about  50,000,  that  at  the  lycea  about  10,000 
or  11,000,  that  at  the  universities  about  21,000,  we 
shall  have  a  hasty  bird's-eye  view  of  the  statistics  of 
education  in  Italy  to-day.  But  this  is  really  to  see 
nothing.  Of  military  schools,  naval  schools,  techni- 
cal schools  and  institutes,  medical  and  veterinary 
schools,  and  schools  of  agriculture,  mining,  engineer- 
ing, commerce,  science  in  its  many  branches,  I  say 


APPENDIX  333 

nothing.  The  subject  is  too  vast  to  interest  the 
traveller — especially  the  Englishman,  who  has  yet  to 
interest  himself  in  education  in  his  own  land. 

The  religious  question  is  not  unknown  in  Italy, 
but  it  has  not  usurped  the  throne  in  matters  of  ele- 
mentary education  as  it  has  with  us.  If  one  who 
has  but  seen  things  from  the  outside  may  express  an 
opinion,  I  should  be  inclined  to  say  that  politics 
occupied  too  much  of  the  time  of  the  university  man. 
It  is  no  rare  thing  to  find  two  or  three  regiments  of 
soldiers  in  hiding,  ready  to  suppress  the  undergraduate 
if  he  becomes  excited,  as  he  invariably  does  when 
he  sees  what  is  expected  of  him.  The  student  is 
taken  too  seriously,  and  thinks  of  Freedom  or  Liberty 
rather  as  his  mistress  than  as  his  wife. 


A    NOTE    ON    THE    POLITICAL    SYSTEM. 

The  political  system  in  Italy,  as  everywhere  else, 
is  very  much  what  the  people  choose  to  make  it. 
In  Italy  the  people  have  not  made  it  a  success. 
Every  householder  paying  from  150  to  500  francs 
a-year  in  rent  (in  some  places  the  former,  in  others 
the  latter)  has  a  vote ;  so  has  every  one  who  can 
read  and  who  at  the  same  time  pays  20  francs 
a-year  in  taxes  directly  to  the  State.  Every  farmer 
too  who  pays  from  450  to  600  francs  a-year  in 
rent,  every  soldier  who  fought  in  the  war  for  unity, 
and  every  graduate  at  a  university  have  votes;  and 
there  are  other  qualifications.  Yet  the  voters  are 
less  than  8  per  cent  of  the  nation,  while  in  the 
United  Kingdom  of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland  they 
are  17  per  cent.  There  are  still  to  be  considered, 
however,  the  numbers  of  those  who,  while  entitled 
to  vote,  do  not  exercise  their  right  for  various 
reasons;  they  are  more  than  40  per  cent  of  the 
whole. 

The  Government  consists  of  King,  Senate,  and 
Chamber  of  Deputies.  The  Senate,  which,  roughly 
speaking,    corresponds    to    our    House   of  Lords,   is 


APPENDIX  335 

a  House  of  citizens  over  forty  years  of  age,  nom- 
inated for  life  by  the  king.  There  are  certain  other 
restrictions  beside  that  of  age,  but  almost  any 
respectable  person  may  become  eligible.  The  Sen- 
ate has  a  certain  power  in  that  it  is  trusted  to  a 
greater  extent  by  the  people  than  is  the  Camera. 
Messrs  Bolton  King,  and  Okey,  however,  say  that 
"  it  is  a  piece  of  almost  unused  machinery,  neg- 
lected by  everybody,  and  quite  without  influence 
in  the  national  life."  That  is  certainly  true  at 
present,  and  yet  language  of  that  kind  sounds  very 
much  the  same  as  the  vain  threatening  of  the 
House  of  Lords  at  the  time  of  the  second  Home 
Rule  Bill.  It  seems  to  me  that  there  is  a  very 
important  and   useful   life   before  the   Senate. 

The  Chamber  of  Deputies  consists  of  men  over 
thirty  years  old,  who  are  elected  for  a  term  of  five 
years.  The  Prime  Minister  is,  as  in  England, 
chosen  by  the  king.  All  Ministers  receive  a  salary 
of  25,000  francs  (£1000  in  our  money),  which  is 
quite  inadequate  for  their  needs.  Ministers  travel 
free,  in  a  most  magnificent  manner,  on  the  railway; 
but  during  their  very  precarious  tenure  of  office 
they  have  an  uncomfortable  time  of  it,  owing  to 
the  fact  that  they  are  expected  by  their  friends  to 
repay  them  for  services  rendered,  with  the  gift  of 
offices,  favours,  introductions,  and  recommendations. 
I  myself  have  seen  a  certain  Minister  worried  nearly 
out  of  his  life  in  a  small  town  that  he  was  visiting 
by  the  attentions  of  the  town  band,  the  police,  the 


336  APPENDIX 

mayor,  and  the  people,  who  were  all  bent  on  getting 
something  out  of  him. 

A  general  election  takes  place  on  any  given  Sun- 
day, on  the  same  day  throughout  the  Peninsula. 
To  ensure  his  return  a  candidate  must  obtain  more 
than  50  per  cent  of  the  votes.  The  corruption  on 
these  occasions  is  extreme.  "  Newspapers  are  subsi- 
dised from  the  secret  funds,  school  teachers  are 
impressed  to  assist  in  canvassing,  railway  employees 
are  warned,  or,  if  influential  Socialists,  are  removed 
to  a  distant  post  during  the  election.  .  .  .  Police- 
men are  stationed  at  the  polling-booths  to  shut  out 
opposition  votes.  .  .  .  Registers  are  tampered  with 
in  the  Revision  Courts.  A  teacher  of  literature  has 
been  known  to  be  struck  off  as  illiterate."  So  say 
Messrs  Bolton  King,  and  Okey  in  their  valuable 
book,  '  Italy  To  -  day.'  It  is  always  the  Govern- 
ment of  the  day  that  has  the  power  to  be  the 
villain  of  the  piece.  It  is  the  Government  that 
bribes  the  Mafia  and  Camorra  with  Secret  Service 
money  to  come  to  its  assistance ;  perhaps  it  is  to 
their  usefulness  at  the  elections  that  the  Mafia  and 
Camorra  owe  their  continued  existence.  The  can- 
didates, too,  do  not  hesitate  to  bribe  in  the  most 
open  manner.  "  It  is  believed,"  say  the  authors 
of  '  Italy  To-day,'  quoted  above,  "that  Pelloux 
saved  up  £400,000  for  electoral  contingencies.  In 
1892  £8000  are  said  to  have  been  spent  in  one 
constituency.  At  the  elections  of  1900  bribery 
seems    to    have    been   rampant   both   in    the    North 


APPENDIX  337 

and  in  the  South."  Indeed,  the  prices  of  votes, 
subject  to  fluctuation  as  they  are,  like  other  mar- 
ketable things,  should  be  quoted  in  the  newspapers 
from  day  to  day.  The  Government  might  then 
seize  the  opportunity  "to  go  to  the  country"  when 
there  was  a  "  slump  "  in  votes  and  thus  save  Italy 
a  large  amount  of  money. 

Is  it  likely  that   such  a    Government   should   ac- 
complish anything  but  harm  ? 


A  NOTE  ON  THE  ARMY  AND  NAVY. 

The  annual  cost  of  the  army  and  navy  is  just  over 
£16,000,000.  This  expenditure,  which  really  would 
seem  to  be  necessary,  is  very  heavy  for  a  country  so 
poor  as  Italy,  It  is  true  that  these  sixteen  millions 
include  pensions,  but  even  without  these  it  is  a  heavy 
price  for  Italy  to  pay  for  safety.  Out  of  these 
£16,000,000  the  navy  takes  some  £4,000,000.  It 
would  certainly  seem  to  a  foreigner  that  it  is  abso- 
lutely necessary  to  keep  up  the  navy,  yet  it  is  to  be 
feared  that  this  is  not  done,  at  least  as  it  ought  to  be. 
Italy  is  far  more  exposed  to  an  attack  by  sea  than  by 
land.  Her  effective  fighting  fleet  consists  of  3  first- 
class  battleships  built,  and  6  building ;  5  second-class 
battleships  built,  and  2  third-class  battleships ;  4  first- 
class  cruisers  built,  and  1  building  ;  5  second-class,  and 
11  third-class;  11  torpedo  boats  and  3  torpedo-boat 
destroyers  built,  and  8  building;  7  gun-boats,  and 
3  coast-defence  ships.  That  is  a  total  of  16  battle- 
ships built  or  building,  against  France's  34 ;  21 
cruisers  built  or  building,  against  France's  55 ;  22 
torpedo  boats  and  destroyers  built  or  building, 
against    France's     209.      From     these    figures    the 


APPENDIX  339 

traveller  will  see  that  Italy  cannot  abate  one  lira 
from  her  naval  expenditure, — that  indeed  if  she  were 
to  stand  alone  she  would  be  at  the  mercy  of  France, 
for  instance,  at  sea.  However,  it  is  generally  believed 
in  Italy  that  the  navy  is  an  efficient  fighting  machine. 
The  officers  are  recruited  from  the  upper  classes  of 
society,  the  men  conscripted  from  the  coast  popula- 
tion. There  is  a  Navy  League,  but  it  has  as  yet  been 
given  but  little  hearing,  though  everyone  is  con- 
vinced of  the  necessity  of  keeping  up  the  sea  power 
of  the  country. 

The  army  consists  in  peace  time  of  some  330,000 
men,  that  in  war  time  might  become  three  and  a 
quarter  millions.  It  consists  of  Cavalry,  which  is 
the  fashionable  and  most  brilliant  arm,  Artillery, 
Infantry,  and  Engineers  ;  the  Riflemen  or  Bersagliere, 
who  wear  plumes  of  cock's  feathers  on  their  wide- 
brimmed  hats ;  the  Cacciatori  Alpini,  who  are,  as 
indeed  are  the  Chasseurs  Alpins  in  France,  among 
the  finest  soldiers  in  the  world ;  and  the  Carabineers. 

The  army  is  conscript,  the  officers,  of  course,  being 
educated  at  a  military  college.  Thus  the  nation  is, 
as  in  France  and  Germany,  really  a  nation  of  soldiers, 
for  every  citizen  between  the  ages  of  twenty  and  forty 
is  liable  to  be  called  out  in  case  of  war. 

When  an  Italian  is  twenty  years  old  he  is  called  on 
to  serve  his  country,  unless  he  is  the  son  of  a  widow 
or  an  only  son,  or  a  university  student,  in  which  last 
case  he  only  postpones  his  services.  There  are  three 
classes  of  recruits :  the  first  serve  for  two  years,  and 


340  APPENDIX 

are  on  the  special  reserve  for  seven  years  more ;  then 
they  are  on  the  ordinary  reserve  for  four  years,  and 
lastly  they  pass  into  the  militia  for  seven  years,  and 
can  only  be  called  on  for  service  in  case  of  invasion, 
— this  brings  them  to  the  age  of  forty.  The  second 
class  are  nominally  in  the  army  for  eight  years,  but 
in  reality  they  are  only  called  out  for  a  month  or 
two  every  other  year  or  so :  they  then  pass  into  the 
ordinary  reserve  and  the  militia,  as  those  of  the  first 
class  do.  The  third  class  enter  the  militia  at  once, 
and  so  come  off  easily  best. 

The  Cavalry  is  the  aristocratic  arm  of  the  service ; 
the  officers  are  gentlemen,  and  often  rich,  too.  The 
Infantry  is  not  invariably  officered  by  gentlemen ; 
perhaps  it  is  none  the  worse  as  a  fighting  machine 
on  that  account,  though  this  is  doubtful,  to  say  the 
least. 

The  army  has  done  much  for  United  Italy — indeed 
without  the  army  United  Italy  would  be  impossible. 
Certainly  in  Italy  conscription  has  meant  a  sort  of 
civilisation. 


Index. 


Agricultural  syndicates,  23. 

Alban  Hills,  14. 

Amalfi,  197. 

D'Amicis,  76. 

D'Annunzio,  78-100,  132,  277. 

Assisi,  210-222. 

Austria,  15. 

Baiae,  195,  196. 
Banks,  23,  29. 
Bicci,  74,  75. 
Bologna,  264-269. 
Borrow,  5. 

Caesar,  9,  15,  63. 
Carducci,  65,  67-73. 
Cavour,  50,  57. 
Chamber  of  Deputies,  43,  50. 
Christian  Democrats,  29. 
Church,  the,  9,  19,  20,  23. 
Clericals,  52,  55. 
Conscription,  its  abolition,  56. 
Conservatives,  51,  52,  55. 
Cumae,  196. 

Dufaure,  28. 

Edward  VII.,  King,  28. 
Eight  hours'  day,  56. 

Ferri,  Signor,  56. 
Filippo  Lippi,  254-263. 
Florence,  7,  223-263. 

Accademia  delle  Belle  Arti,  232-253. 

Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  254-263. 

Itinerary,  224. 

La  Bella  herself,  235-242. 

Luca  della  Robbia,  243-253, 

Pitti  Palace,  226-228. 

Uffizi  Gallery,  228-232. 
Fogazzaro,  65,  73,  74. 


Francia  (Francesco),  264-269. 

Gambetta,  28. 

Gambling  mania,  16,  17,  57,  63. 
Garibaldi,  12-14,  I7.  57.  63. 
Genoa,  7,  13,  16,  103-110. 

Holy  Week  there,  104. 

Lionardo's    John     Baptist    there, 
109. 

The  port  for  Palestine,  106,  107. 
Giolitti,  44,  50. 
Gordon,  General,  13. 
Government,  the  Italian,  24,  41. 
Guerrini,  74. 

Horace,  14. 

Howell,  James,  quoted,  3. 

Humbert,  King,  41-47. 

Illiterates  in  Italy,  55. 
Impressions  of  cities,  103-319. 
Impressions  of  Italy,  i-iou. 
Income-tax,  56. 
Italians,  the,  17,  22,  23,  54. 
Italy,  a  vision,  12. 

Her  cities,  103-319. 

To-day,  3-100. 

United,  12-24. 
Italy's  ideal,  22. 

Janiculum,  14. 
Jesuits,  29,  51,  176-178. 
'John  Inglesant,'  39. 

Kultur-Ka7npf,  28. 

Lanciani,  76. 
Leo  XIII.,  27-40. 
Lionardo,  109,  316-319. 
Literature,  65-100. 
D'Amicis,  76. 


342 


INDEX 


D'Annunzio,  78-100. 

Bicci,  74,  75. 

Carducci,  67,  73. 

Fogazzaro,  73,  74. 

Guerrini,  74. 

Lanciani,  j6. 

Lombroso,  76. 

Negri,  Ada,  74,  75. 

Rapisardi,  75. 

Rossi,  76. 

Serao  (Matilde),  77, 

Verga,  73. 

Villari  (Pasquale),  76. 
Lombroso,  76. 

Lorenzo,  Fiorenzo  di,  205-220. 
Luca  della  Robbia,  243-253. 

MacMahon,  28. 
Malaria,  23. 
Mantua,  306-310. 

Giulio  Romano,  308,  309. 
Mazzini,  12,  15,  17,  57. 
"  Minimum  programme,"  Socialists', 

55- 
Milan,  311-319. 

Lionardo,  316-319. 

Socialism  there,  59. 

St  Ambrose,  312,  313. 

Sant'  Eustorgio,  his  church,  315. 
Monza,  44. 
Music.     See  Rome,  Plain-song. 

Naples,  189-201. 

Amain,  197. 

Aquarium,  201. 

Baise,  195,  196. 

Cumae,  196. 

Museum,  189. 

Noise  of,  189. 

Passtum,  199. 

People,  192-195. 

Pompeii,  200. 

Salerno,  199,  200. 
Negri,  Ada,  74,  75. 

Orders,  the  religious,  in  Rome,  156- 
179. 
Augustinians,  174,  175. 
Barnabites,  178. 
Benedictines,  157-164,  180-188. 
Camaldolese,  161. 
Cappuccini,  167,  168. 
Carmelites,  169-171. 
Carthusians,  162. 
Cistercians,  160,  161. 
"Clerks  Regular,"  171. 
Conventuals,  167. 


Dames  Anglaises,  174. 
Dominicans,  165,  166. 
Franciscans,  164-169. 
Friars  Minor,  168,  169. 
Jesuits,  176-178. 
Lazarists,  173. 

Little  Sisters  of  the  Poor,  173,  174. 
Observants,  167. 
Olivetans,  162,  163. 
Pessimists,  178,  179. 
Poor  Clares,  168. 
Sisters  of  Charity,  172,  173. 
Society  of  Jesus,  176-178. 
Sylvestrians,  162. 
Theatines,  178. 
Trappists,  163,  164. 
Trinitarians,  174. 
Vallombrosans,  161. 
Orvieto,  131-138. 
DAnnunzio  on,  132. 
City  of  convents,  130. 
Miracle  of  Bolsena,  135. 
Piazza  del  Duomo,  133. 
Signorelli,  137,  138.  " 


Padua,  290-299. 

John  Inglesant,  291. 

Nicholas  Ferrar,  293. 

St  Anthony,  295-299. 
Paestum,  199. 
Papal  conclave,  32,  36-39. 
Papa-Re,  II,  25-40. 
Payment  of  members,  55. 
Peasant's  desire  for  property,  58 
Perugia,  26,  202-209. 

Cathedral,  207.^ 

Fiorenzo  di  Lorenzo,  205-207. 

Madonna  delle  Grazie,  208.  ? 

Queen  of  hill  cities,  203.    * 

Virgin's  ring,  207,  208.    * 
Pisa,  7,  26,  111-120. 

Cathedral  fire,  118-120. 

Cathedral  group,  1 13-120. 

La  Madonna  sotto  gli  Organi, 

Orcagna's  fresco,  115. 

Pater's  picture  of,  112. 
Pius  IX.,  27,  28. 
Pompeii,  200. 
Pope,  the,  25-40. 
Press,  liberty  of,  56. 
Property,  division  of,  57,  58. 
Protestantism,  23. 


w 


Rampolla,  Cardinal,  31-33. 
Rapisardi,  75. 
Ravenna,  270-273. 


INDEX 


343 


Referendum,  55. 
Republicanism,  56,  57. 
Riviera,  26. 
Rome,  8,  25,  26,  139-188. 

Born  again,  139. 

Christmas  Eve  in,  145-155. 

Fall  of,  16. 

Plain-song  in,  180-188. 

Religious      Orders.      See      under 
Orders. 

Vandalism,  139-143. 
Romulus,  14. 
Rossi,  76, 
Rudini,  Di,  50. 
Rural  unions,  29. 

St  Ambrose,  312,  313. 

Sant'  Anselmo  in  Aventino,  180-188. 

St  Anthony,  295-299. 

St  Catherine,  124-130. 

St  Francis,  210-222. 

St  Malachy,  27,  30,  33-36. 

St  Peter's  Church,  11,  14. 

San  Silvestro  in  Capite,  151,  152. 

St  Teresa,  169-171. 

St  Vincent  de   Paul,    172,   173.     See 

also  under  Orders. 
Saints,    necessity    for    reading    their 

lives,  225. 
Salerno,  200. 

Savoy,  House  of,  9,  15,  22,  41-5? 
Scotland  and  Pope  Leo,  29, 
Serao,  Matilde,  77. 


Shorthouse,  Mr  J.  H. ,  39. 
Sicily,  57. 
Siena,  121-130. 

Cathedral,  122-124. 

St  Catherine,  124-130. 
Signorelli,  Luca,  137,  138. 
Socialists,  17,  51,  54-64. 
Socialists  (Catholic),  29. 
Sonnino,  50. 
Spanish  steps,  23. 
Statues,  pretentious,  14. 

Tuscany,  Socialism  in,  58. 
Turin,  15. 

Universal  suffrage,  55. 

Vandalism,  9,  10,  139-143. 
Vannutelli,  Cardinal,  32. 
Venice,  274-289. 
Verga,  65-73. 
Verona,  300-305. 

San  Zenone,  303-305i 
Victoria,  Queen,  28. 
Village  banks,  29. 
Villari,  L.,  52. 
Villari,  Pasquale,  76. 
Virgil,  63. 

Vittorio  Emanuele  II.,  10, 
Vittorio  Emanuele  II 


42,  44.  45 
47-49.  52>  53 


Waddingion,  28. 


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